


Hey Bartender

by Jenye



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bartenders, Drabble Collection, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-26 07:12:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3841828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenye/pseuds/Jenye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Bartender!Bellarke series you didn’t realize you needed.<br/>*Was originally titled: A Guy Walks Into A Bar*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Guy Walks Into A Bar

_Night One: A Tequila Shot_

The crowd is oozing out of the entrance as Bellamy presses his way through the main door. He gives the doorman a quick nod and slap on the shoulder before squeezing through a group of already far past wasted girls. He probably would have given them a second glance if he hadn’t been ten minutes late for his shift and cursing the idiot who removed the old beer bottle that was normally wedged in the back door for easy, employee-only access.

His foul mood only intensifies as he rounds the bar — giving a couple of his regulars quick greetings — and sees a blonde bouncing from patron to patron. Her grace in the confided quarters is only matched by her efficiency with drinks. She barely takes note of him as she drops down two drafts atop the bar and moves on to her next order.

“Where the fuck is Miller?” Bellamy grounds out, not even glancing at his new partner as he falls into his role and starts mixing the two whiskey sours just ordered from an older gentleman.

“You must be Bellamy.” She responds easily, making quick work of a row of tequila shots. “Miller took the night. Figured with two bartenders, he wouldn’t be needed.”

“That’ll be 8 bucks.” Bellamy nods at his customer as he hands over three bottled beers before glancing over at the blonde who is apparently his second for tonight. “You’re the new bartender? I don’t think so.”

“What? Because I’m a woman I couldn’t possibly handle being a bartender?” Her question is laced with venom and he can feel her eyes on him for the first time since he’s gotten here.

“Keep your bra on, Princess.” Bellamy laughs, shoveling ice into his martini shaker. “I just meant that I work alone. Miller jumps in when needed, but I run this side. I don’t need your help.”

“The name’s Clarke, not ‘Princess’. And as much as I would already love to see you fall on your face with that ‘I work alone’ theory,” She mimics his voice, pausing only for a second to glare at him. “It doesn’t bode well for the sales to drop on my first night so I think you’ll just have to grow up and get over it.”

Bellamy just rolls his eyes and moves over closer to her side of the bar. He is moving like a man who has mapped this course enough times to do it in his sleep until Clarke tries to take a quick turn to the register and collides right into his chest.

Fortunately they had both just put their respective orders down and the mess is minimal, but the force of the hit nearly sends Clarke to the floor. Bellamy instinctively reaches out to grab around her waist and it’s the first time he actually sees the blonde who’s taken over part of his bar.

She’s striking and her blue eyes flash with a passion he’s never seen. Unfortunately that passion seems to be playing itself out as anger in his direction and he’s too annoyed by her mere presence to actually appreciate anything she has to offer.

“Watch where you’re going.” She bites out, pushing past him quickly.

Bellamy recovers seamlessly and nearly growls in her direction before finding the bottle of alcohol he had originally started his journey for.

“You stay on your side, Princess. And I’ll stay on mine.” He throws back in her direction, “And we’ll survive just fine.”

“Fine by me.” Clarke snarls and it’s then that Bellamy realizes he’s dealing with someone who has to have the last word.

—

Working at a bar in a college town makes the busy times easy to schedule for. A three-day weekend? Better have the bar stocked on Friday because people aren’t going to want to remember their name until about three o’clock on Saturday afternoon. The week before finals? The keg you opened late last week will probably go stale before you reach the bottom. No one has time to eat a good meal let alone buy their buddy a drink. And after any given home game? All bets are off.

And tonight the Razorbacks won a pretty important game so the crowd inside Grounder is buzzing and the growing tabs are proof.

Bellamy would never admit it out loud, but there have been several times that he is thankful he has Clarke covering half the bar. And he knows Miller’s bottom line will be proof of just how well this team works. He’s not sure about how he feels about this turn of events. He knows his pockets will be lined a little thicker with tips because of the easy flow, but he also knows that means this new lineup won’t be a one-time thing.

It also hasn’t gone unnoticed that his new second has a bit of a competitive side to her. And that would normally be something that would draw Bellamy to a woman, but he’s far too busy trying to one up her to even cross the lines into the attracted territory.

The middle of the bar has become their respective endzones. Any poor soul that happens to lean into that populated space is instantly bombarded with over-attentive bartenders.

A group of girls were easy pray for charming-smiled Bellamy. Once he stepped up to the counter they hardly noticed Clarke’s presence. But that shaggy-haired, future Peace Corps fucker? Bellamy was as good as invisible as soon Clarke showed the littlest amount of interest.

One poor man nearly has a beer poured down his lap as Bellamy was handing it to him when Clarke notices another patron nearing the free-game piece of property. She all but climbs over him to get the order. Unfortunately that patron turns out to just be meeting another person next to the bar and the attempt has been for nothing.

“Easy there, shortstop.” Bellamy smirks over his shoulder as he whips down the countertop.

“Fuck off, Blake.” Clarke grumbles, her glare never wavering. “Or I’ll climb up there and kick your ass.”

Bellamy ignores the drop in his stomach at realizing she’s also a bit of sore loser. If he didn’t loathe this girl so much he’d probably be in love.

—

Clarke is stocking the bar with clean glasses when a brunette steps up to the center of the bar. Bellamy is in the middle of helping out some regulars and the blonde doesn’t hesitate to step up.

“What can I get you?” She asks, her fingers already twitching to make this girl’s order.

“Where’s Bellamy?” She asks, looking past the blonde and eying down the bar to see the target of her attention.

“He’s busy now, but I can get you something started?” Clarke says with a smile, but she’s all but gritting her teeth.

Of course this beautiful girl wants Bellamy. Why wouldn’t she? She’s just his type too — okay, well maybe Clarke doesn’t really know that. But Clarke decides it’s probably better to ignore that familiar burn in the pit of her stomach. Jealous has a terrible aftertaste.

“No it’s cool. I’ll just wait.” She smiles, finally looking at Clarke.

Clarke leans against the bar, jaw set. “Tell me what you want or walk. I’ve got paying customers waiting behind you.”

The girl’s eyes go wide and she gives a bit of a smirk as she crosses her arms over chest, “How ‘bout a whiskey and twenty bucks?”

“Twenty bu—“

“O, what are you doing here? I thought you were studying with Harper.” Bellamy steps up next to Clarke and stares hard at the girl across the counter.

“We’re starving, Bell. I need twenty bucks. We want to get a pizza.” She whines, leaning toward him. “And who’s the new girl? She’s got a mean streak. I like it.”

Clarke’s cheeks go warm and she quickly realizes she’s still standing there for no good reason. She slowly pushes herself away from the conversation and turns her attention to a group of guys who just walked up.

“She’s the new bartender Miller hired.” She hears Bellamy tell the mystery girl. And she’s only half ashamed at how focused she remains on their conversation. “Pizza and straight back home. Got it?”

“Thank you!” The girl’s voice comes out in almost a song as she snatches the offered cash. “And did anyone ever tell you that you worry too much, Big Brother?”

“Get out of here.” He responds, but Clarke’s pretty sure it’s the lightest she’s heard his voice all night.

And she’s no where near ready to touch on the feeling of relief she suddenly has at that girl being Bellamy’s sister.

—

By the time the last few souls empty out of the bar, Bellamy is all but ready to fall on his face. Apparently their competition had gotten most of their attention because neither Clarke nor Bellamy had realized it was nearly four o’clock and no one had yelled for last call.

Bellamy quickly remedied that and soon they were rushed to close out tabs, make last minute shots, and get cabs called for people who’d long ago handed over their keys.

And now the once full house was nearly empty with only Clarke, Bellamy, and Lincoln — the club’s doorman and impromptu bouncer from time to time. Lincoln finishes locking up the front doors while Clarke makes one last sweep for empty bottles and glasses. Bellamy swipes up behind the bar and starting to cash out the register. He only has to force himself to stop listening to Clarke’s quiet humming along to the jukebox twice before focusing back on the task at hand.

He doesn’t even notice Clarke has come back behind the bar until he hears the sound of glass hitting the bar top and a bottle clinking behind him.

When he turns around, Clarke is pouring three shots of tequila and motioning for Lincoln to come join them. Bellamy just watches her and for the first time that night, in the quiet stillness, he sees just how at home she seems behind the bar. How relaxed her features are and how she expertly twists her wrist to stop each pour like she’s been doing it for eons.

He’d give credit to Miller later. If the owner put a gun to his head.

She places the bottle back in its place and pushes one shot toward Lincoln before picking up the other to hand to Bellamy. At first he eyes her, not sure he’s ready for this unspoken truce. But finally he turns away from the register and grabs the offered shot.

“To a good night.” Clarke offers.

“An interesting night.” Lincoln counters, holding up his shot.

“A well-deserved ending.” Bellamy smirks, his eyes firmly on Clarke’s.

They all down their shots, none of them really affected outwardly by the burn down their throats. But he does notice Clarke grab for a nearby lime and bite down easily. He turns back to the register and starts back with the task at hand.

Clarke is by him a moment later, leaning against the backside of the bar.

“So, you think we make an alright team?” She asks, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Bellamy can’t help but laugh, “I wouldn’t go that far, Princess.”


	2. You Look Good In My Shirt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading& the continued awesome support! Hope you continue you enjoy! Again, not beta-ed. All mistakes are mine.

_Night Eleven & Twelve: A Moscow Mule & A Tom Collins_

“So you used to play for the university, right? Before grad school?” She’s elbow deep in glass duty when she yells across the bar at her partner for the night.

Bellamy looks up from the register, counting off their tips for the night and finishing up with the deposit so Miller can take it to the bank in the morning. He gives her a confused look and then she practically sees his ego double in size as his chest puffs up against the worn flannel of his shirt.

“NCAA champs of 2010. Still hold the scoring record for a single game.”

“You’ll stop now, Clarke. The last time someone asked Blake to relive the glory days we nearly suffocated before we could make it to the nearest exit.” Lincoln warns, coming to lean up against the counter. He reaches for the drink of the evening. A tradition started, unknowingly by Clarke the night she started. Lincoln starts sucking down the Moscow Mule Bellamy has mixed for the three soon after the last customers stumbled out of the door.

Clarke grins as Bellamy chucks the towel that had been thrown over his shoulder and it smacks Lincoln right in the face before the larger man even gets a chance to react.

“You’re lucky you mix a mean drink.” Lincoln grumbles good-naturedly but his lips never leave the small straw.

If Clarke was one for social media she would definitely snap a picture of the burley man sitting at their bar with his shoulders hunched over as he enjoys the gin mix through a dainty straw that he could probably snap with one of his fixed glares if he so intended and have it posted to every photo feed within seconds. Hashtag: Real men use straw stirrers.

“So you still have your warm up jerseys, I’m assuming?” Clarke asks, finishing up with the glasses and wiping her hands on her jeans.

Bellamy’s eyebrow arches in that heart stopping way that tells Clarke she’s somehow managed to surprise him. And although they’ve only been working together for several short weeks, and he still gets on her last fucking nerve, she’s grown to look forward to that expression. Maybe even trying to cause it from time to time.

“Got some fantasies you’re wanting to play out, Princess?” He grins deviously and Clarke nearly forgets they have an audience of one.

She rolls her eyes and quickly turns to start restocking the back beer cabinets in hopes that no one noticed how her cheeks have turned red. She swears the temperature has risen at least ten degrees in the bar.

“Miller wants us to show our school spirit tomorrow night with the Sweet Sixteen game against Kentucky. And I need some spirit wear.” She reasons, still not able to meet either of them in the eye.

“You do realize you also attend the university, right? No ‘spirit’ in your own wardrobe?” Lincoln asks with a laugh.

“Yes, because nothing says excellent tips like stained, raggedy, oversized sweatshirts.” Clarke glares over her shoulder and she swears she sees a twinkle in the doorman’s eye.

He is too goddamn intuitive for his own good.

“So can I borrow one or not?” Clarke asks, her attention going back to the other bartender.

Bellamy smiles, “As the lady wishes.”

\--

Sports bring out the rivalry in people. Alcohol brings out the extrovert in people. Therefore a bar during an important sporting event should be quarantined for crazies. Any human being thinking they would like to make a living off such events needs to be punched hard enough to send them back to that day in grade school when the teacher asks what they want to be when they grow up. And they need to think long and fucking hard on the answer this time.

“Hold your dick, Murphy.” Miller yells across the bar, as he’s knee deep in drink orders he’s hardly able to list let alone mix.

“’Hold your dick.’ Trying to class up the place, boss?” Bellamy smirks, nearly running circles around the man. “And are you sure you got into the right line of work? Owning a bar, you’d think you’d be able to mix a simple Cosmo.”

“Does this dive look like the place you’d order a fucking Cosmo at?”

Bellamy doesn’t respond; he’s too far up this shitty creek without a paddle and Miller — the awesome boss he is — is only slowing him down. Instead he tries to maintain his own cool exterior while he inwardly boils at the obvious absence of his trusted in second. He’s not sure if he’s more frustrated that she’s not here or that he’s become that dependent on her presence behind this broke down counter.

They move around each other like a well-choreographed dance. The territories of her first night were all but forgotten by the second round of March Madness games and they were flowing around each other like a well-established current. When he was on one end she’d be filling demand on the other and when the time came they’d flip almost on queue. It was surreal how easily they fell into their roles after such a short time working together.

They still didn’t go a night without at least one blow up. She’d empty the last of the Jose without putting a pour spout in the new one and he’d be left to take the time. He’d forget to clean the taps and her beers would come out nearly all foam the night after. And just overall personality clashes. Where he was all passion and instinct, she was logical and critical thinking.

One would think those two things don’t really matter when you’re tending bar. Well, those fucking morons have never done so at a dive bar in the middle of a hormone-crazed campus town.

Bellamy is in the middle of pouring a row of shots when he sees a flustered blonde push through the crowd and back behind the bar.

“Glad you could fucking join us.” He nearly growls and if looks could kill those would have been his dying words.

“Class ran late, what do you want from me?” She barks, throwing her messenger bag beneath the bar and pulling her wild mane back into a low ponytail.

“Oh I don’t know, maybe be on time during the craziest night of the week.” Bellamy shouts, pushing his shots to their intended — rather attractive — consumers and looking back at them with a charming smile. “On the house.”

The disbelieving expression that crosses Clarke’s face doesn’t go unnoticed by him, but he avoids it and pushes past her to start the next order on his list.

“Probably wouldn’t be so bad if you weren’t as fast and loose with our booze as you are your dick.” Her venom practically drips from her words and Bellamy rounds on her in a second.

They’re face to face, although Bellamy is over a head taller, Clarke doesn’t even flinch when he glares her way. Instead she just steps forward, daring him to say something more about her tardiness or anything else for that matter. Because they work as well as gasoline in a car, with one spark it can all end in a blaze of glory.

“To your corners.” Miller pushes himself purposely between them as he walks to the other side of the bar. “And make me some goddamn money.”

“Jersey’s on the register, Princess.” Bellamy says, not even bothering to look back at her as he gets back to work. “Better get some fucking spirit, we’re going into halftime.”

She doesn’t say anything, but he sees her quickly toss off her sweater, leaving her in nothing but her white tank top and torn jeans. It doesn’t last long before she’s throwing on his old jersey, the old blue mesh nearly drowning for her petite frame, but she simply ties the extra fabric in a knot against her hip and it’s almost like it was made for her.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by Bellamy just how perfect her porcelain skin looks against the navy blue of the jersey. And the twist in his stomach when he sees “Blake” written atop his number on her back makes him nearly want to pull his hair out. And Miller only acknowledges that his stare remains on her too long with a low laugh and a shake of his head.

“Go fuck yourself.” Bellamy grumbles, getting back to work and trying to remind himself why he hates the blonde so much.

\--

The crowd never thins as the game grows intense. Bellamy spends a little less time slinging drinks and a little more time cheering on his team by the nearest screen. They’re only up by eight and there’s five minutes left in the game. It’s still a long road to the Elite Eight and he’s more than ready to see his old team make another try for the championship.

Clarke, to his surprise, seems just as excited and with every call the referees make she has to put in her two cents. And he’s impressed with her insight. She’s getting harder and harder to dislike and it’s rubbing him the wrong way. Bellamy isn’t used to changing his opinion of people and he’s always been a gut instinct kind of guy. In fact, he’s used to being the one to say, “I told you something was off with that one” when the ship finally sinks.

But she’s different.

And the way his eyes constantly bounce in her direction, even when they’re both in the middle of separate orders or conversations, is enough to cause him pause. And add a little more self-loathing to his day.

He’s dumping a bucket of ice in their cooler when he walks up to the bar and straight to her. He remembers him from her first night and he stands out in this place like a sore thumb. He’s not the usual type the bar draws in. Long hair, puppy dog eyes, and an “I’m the one who’s finally going to bring about world peace” arrogance. The type that would just as soon see into a girl’s soul than get into her pants — or so he’d have them believe. Bellamy isn’t naïve and he’s seen the type; no guy sees a girl and instantly sees her “beautiful soul”. Fuck off Jesse McCarthy, no one’s buying it; especially no one who has tended bar for more than a week.

At first, Bellamy doesn’t pay much attention to their conversation. Even if the way she leans on the bar speaks of someone who’s interested in more than a drink order. But then he distinctly hears the guy’s next question: Are you with him? His ears practically bleed to hear more of their conversation. He makes no move that he’s even noticed they’re speaking, but he’s tentatively sticking close to them as he collects empty bottles and glasses across this section of the bar.

“With who?” Clarke’s voice is filled with surprise and he sees her look over at him from the corner of his eye in realization before shaking her head vigorously, “With Bellamy? Oh God no. We’d kill each other.”

It doesn’t sting. She’s probably right. They’d definitely be the death of each other, but Bellamy assumes there would be a lot of pleasure before it went up in flames. Not that he’s ever really thought about it or anything.

Nope. Not at all.

But before he can hear his new least favorite person’s response the crowd in the bar starts to go wild and his attention is instantly drawn to the television above him. It takes only seconds for him to realize they’re up by five and they’ve only got .3 seconds left in the game. They’ve actually won. They’re going to the Elite Eight and they’ve defeated the only undefeated team in the NCAA.

The entire bar goes insane and Bellamy is right there with them; cheering and high fiving everyone. He notices Miller on the other side of the bar cheering next to Lincoln, who happens to be standing right next to his sister. Something that only dampens his mood for a moment — a topic he’s just really not ready to approach at all.

He turns back to look up at the screen watching as the team celebrates. It’s not until she bumps her hip against his that he even realizes Clarke is standing next to him with a grin on her face, having pulled herself away from Peace Keeper at some point during the bar’s celebration.

“Reliving your glory days?” She asks, crossing her arms over her chest, apparently moving past their earlier run in.

“Nah,” Bellamy shakes his head before looking down at her with a cocky grin. “I looked so much better than any of these mugs.”

“Of course you did.” She laughs. “And so much humbler too.”

\--

“Did you see Jackson in the second half?” Lincoln is leaning against the bar; most of the crowd has long since gone elsewhere to celebrate the undefeated being defeated. “There wasn’t a 3 he couldn’t sink.”

Bellamy nods, mixing their drinks for the night and adding an extra glass for Miller, who is still in the back office crunching the numbers. He’s trying to pay attention to Lincoln’s animated replays, but all he seems to notice is how Clarke keeps pulling her phone out of her back pocket and smiling at it from time to time.

“Drinks are up.” Bellamy announces, pushing Lincoln’s toward him before taking a long swig of his own. His face twists up in disgust. He’s never been one for gin. And adding sugar and lemon just makes it taste like the last lemon drop found at the bottom of some Vegas-bond grandma’s purse.

Clarke looks up from her sweeping duties and heads over toward the others. She eyes the drink for a moment, setting her phone atop the old wooden countertops. Her amusement dances across her face as she looks at Bellamy, “A Tom Collins? Really?”

“What? Miller was bitching earlier that we’re not the type of bar people order these kind of drinks…figured I needed to stretch my mixing muscles.”

“Your ‘mixing muscles’?” Her eyebrow raises suspiciously as she takes a sip and she must be pleasantly surprised because she nods in his direction. “Not bad. Maybe you’re not a beer and whiskey kind of guy, after all.”

“Oh no Princess, this shit taste terrible. But just because I don’t want to drink it doesn’t mean I can’t mix it.”

They all share a laugh until he notices her phone light up out of the corner of his eye and she quickly abandons their conversation for whatever digital one she’s having with what he can only assume is the hippie from earlier. He chalks up his irritation to the gin still hanging on to his taste buds.

Bellamy quickly turns back to the register as Lincoln leans over toward Clarke, “Have a good night?”

She scoffs under her breath and Bellamy notices her cheeks redden in the smudged mirrors behind the bar. Instead of saying anything she just looks over at Lincoln with a laugh before looking back down at her phone. And Bellamy’s not sure what comes over him, but in a rare moment he turns around and smiles at her.

“Go ahead and get out of here.” He offers as Clarke looks up from her phone. “We can handle closing — Miller’s gonna be on a high from all the cash the win brought in for awhile. And unlike the rest of us losers, it looks like someone might be waiting for you.”

His eyes drop to her phone knowingly and Clarke looks from Lincoln to Bellamy. At first he thinks she’s going to argue, but instead she reaches over the bar to where her bag is. She makes easy work throwing it over her shoulder and smiles one last time at Bellamy.

“Thanks.” She eyes him a moment longer before heading toward the door, looking back only once. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

Lincoln waves her out the door before looking back at Bellamy, “Holy shit.”

“Not a word.” Bellamy glares, not ready to hear what the doorman could possibly say about that sudden change in attitude.

And he tries hard not to find satisfaction in the fact that she still has his old jersey on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come over to Tumblr (fourfinick) & say hey!


	3. Shut Up & Dance With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for your awesome support! Here's the third installment. Like always, no beta. All mistakes are mine! Enjoy!

_Night Twenty-Four: An Alabama Slammer_

Fucking Nathan Miller. Giving into such an obnoxious event. This place was doing just fine racking it in — well, as far as Bellamy could tell. They really had no need to up the ante by joining in this god-awful campus tradition. Even when Bellamy had been an undergrad he didn’t frequent such an outing. Okay, maybe he hit the first bar or two if he was single — he was male after all. And nothing made for an easier no-strings-attached hook up than meeting at a campus-wide bar crawl.

But being on the working end of said bar crawl? Never something he’d sign up for. Never something he’d sign up his worst enemy for. More terrible than any Greek Week or pre-finals weekend; campus-wide bar crawls meant there was not only one group of overly hands-y frat boys or annoying sorority sisters thinking they’re being original with their t-shirt ideas and outrageous behavior but wave after fucking wave of them. One group would clear out and the next would literally walk right past them to order their round of drinks.

And the name of this nightmare of a night? Delinquent Crawl.

Even the name made him want to groan internally for the next decade. Delinquent Crawl? Really? Who the fuck thought that was a good idea? And where the hell did it even come from? Of course, it lead to some pretty entertaining costume ideas from patrons. Some were generic prison uniforms — others leaning toward a bit risqué with their black and white stripes, Bellamy wasn’t entirely upset by that part. Then they’d see bank robbers, mug shot type looks, and obvious fake I.D.s. It would have all been rather amusing if it hadn’t been such a drunken disaster for so many.

And the décor for such an occasion made Bellamy cringe most of all. The bar on a normal night was a hodgepodge of collected sports memorabilia and vintage state signs. Surrounded by cliché lighting and jukebox music that could barely be heard over the televisions, ever-going pool game, and conversation. But tonight all of that took a backseat to dim lighting, glow stick necklaces, and a fucking DJ. The DJ had been Clarke’s idea — apparently her friend Monty had made quite a name for himself. And him and Miller had hit it off instantly well. Surprising since Miller hit it off with almost no one.

It was all a fucking conspiracy. Bellamy blamed everyone in the world for leading him to this moment. And he blamed Miller, Clarke, and now this Monty-guy for giving it an annoying poppy-beat and glowing accessories.

Miller had to slosh bucket the bathrooms on several occasions after some nasty one-too-many situations. And it served him fucking right. Why the hell sign up to be an “official” stop for such an event? Of course, when Bellamy actually asked — while knee-deep in Jell-O shot prep the night before — his boss had rambled off something about introducing a new type of clientele. Wanting to possibly introduce another location in the future. In his more logical moments, it all made perfect sense. But in his rage-filled state he wanted to take Miller out back and introduce him to his fist.

The tips were shitty and the conversation was all but non-existent. At least on a normal busy night Bellamy would still get several regulars who were good for a laugh or two. Tonight the only laughs he had were when some girl had literally dumbed a shot down her girlfriend’s shirt and when Lincoln manhandled a guy who had decided making less-than-respectful comments toward Clarke had been a good idea.

Oh and that moment when “Call Me Maybe” was blaring over the speakers and he glanced over to see Clarke giving a very spirited lip-syncing session to it. Her dance moves and gestures only grew more flamboyant when she noticed his eyes were on her. She even made it a point to add him into the impromptu performance.

“Hey, I just met you!” She mouthed, pulling at him to come closer as she shook her hips. “And this is crazy. But here’s my number. So call me maybe.”

She had pushed up his hand above her head so she could spin beneath it as a way to punctuate her performance. Her laughter filled the air as she walked back to the other end of the bar. Only glancing back to give him a quick wink. A couple people at the bar cheered drunkenly and clapped in approval, but Bellamy couldn’t take his eyes off the blonde with a glow stick sitting atop her wavy locks like some kind of neon colored halo.

Her behavior didn’t surprise him much anymore, but what did was his reaction to it. They’d been working together for nearly two months and their friendship had grown to good friends — at the very least. They talked about their career plans, family lives, friendships, and relationships. Shared deep talks in an empty bar. Laughed over stupid movies they found on late night television. And flirted like they had every intention of following through with it. But they never did. And up until recently he had been perfectly fine with that. It threw him just how comfortable he felt with this girl who came into his life like a whirlwind. But somewhere between ‘Fuck you, Bellamy’ and conversations over stale beer he started to realize he couldn’t imagine it without her. And that was too fucking much.

That little interaction had managed to lighten to his mood enough to wave goodbye to the last drunken customer instead of booting their ass out the door before locking it. He even let Lincoln run out early — he tried not to think about whom he was going to meet. Especially since it was nearly four in the fucking morning. Again, he wasn’t ready for that conversation.

Miller had left soon after with Monty. Apparently he owned the DJ a breakfast for all the hard work he had put into making the bar crawl a success. Clarke had offered to pack up Monty’s stuff and take it to her apartment. She all but shooed them out the door, waving like a mother sending off her son on his first date.

And then there were two.

And for the first time tonight Bellamy feels calm. He and Clarke move around each other with comfortably little conversation. Somewhere along the way she has flipped on the overhead lights while he removes the streamers that hung from the ceiling, cursing them all the same. They leave the music from earlier tonight on, just at a lower volume. Clarke isn’t ready to quit dancing and Bellamy isn’t ready to quit watching her.

He walks back behind the bar and pulls out two leftover Jell-O shots.

“Bottoms up, Princess.” He offers, holding up an Alabama Slammer in her direction.

“I was hoping we’d have some of these left.” She says, taking the plastic container from his hand.

“SoCo fan?” He tilts his head back to let the cool gelatin slide into his mouth. He’s never been one of the overly sweetened liquor, but it’s not the worst shot he’s ever taken.

Clarke shakes her head, finishing her own shot with a little pucker of her lips. “I’m just not sure I could take another Lemon Drop shot. Men are so unoriginal when it comes to buying a woman a drink. Like do I look like a Lemon Drop Jell-O shot kind of girl?”

Bellamy shakes his head, leaning into the bar. “No, definitely not.”

He feels her eyes on him before he even looks up from where he’s tossing out the empty shot glasses. And when he does he feels like those beautiful blue orbs are studying him for future exams. She has a serious expression on her face, but beyond that he can’t read her usually very readable face. He’s about to ask her what she’s thinking when she smirks.

“Why kind of drink would you buy me?”

That’s a dangerous question, especially when being asked by a bartender. They saw everything. They saw what type of drink every personality ordered and those who believed there wasn’t a drink for every personality had never tended bar and seen the proof in front of their eyes. They’d seen potential relationships go down the drain because someone assumed they knew what the other party was a fan of. One drink could make or break any relationship. Bellamy was a firm believer of that philosophy. Plus, he was moving into dangerous emotional territory. So he pushed himself away from the bar and gave a quick shrug.

“I wouldn’t. Your boyfriend would probably have something to say about it if I did.”

“Oh come on. It’s just a game, Bellamy. You’re no fun.” Clarke giggles, before giving up easily and walking away, back toward her collection of empty bottles at nearby a pub table.

They fall back into a comfortable silence, filled occasionally by Clarke singing along to the music or Bellamy vocally discovering another reason not to host another bar crawl.

“Panties in the fucking rafters, seriously?”

Clarke only laughs. Closing up on a normal night with just two was an easy thing, but tonight it’s a lot of work. But they both decided early on that they wanted to make the place spotless before walking out the doors so they wouldn’t have to come back the next night and deal with the aftermath again.

Bellamy tries to ignore how his eyes always linger when they land on Clarke during the early morning. She’s either dancing while she sweeps the floors or she’s rambling on about how exhausted she’s going to be working on homework tomorrow. It’s nearly six in the morning by the time they’re grabbing their things and officially closing down the bar. They’ve loaded Monty’s speakers and laptop in Clarke’s car and are all but holding their eyes open.

When they make it outside the sun is just starting to rise as Bellamy walks with Clarke toward her car.

“Want a ride home?” Clarke asks, turning her key into her old car door.

“Nah.” Bellamy shakes his head, glancing over his shoulder in the direction he’ll be heading. “It’s just a couple blocks. And I have a feeling the next place I sit is going to be my bed for the next ten hours.”

“I can always crack a window.”

He laughs, “No. It’s alright. Thanks though. Have a good…day.”

“You too.” She smiles, opening her car door.

“Blood Orange and Bourbon.”

He’s not sure what made him say it. It’s what he’d been thinking since the moment she asked her original question, but he’s not sure what suddenly possesses him to tell her. She has just tossed her bag into the passenger seat and is looking back at him with a tired, confused expression.

“What?”

“That’s the kind of drink I would buy you. Obviously.”

Clarke smiles, her eyes bright even with lack of sleep. “Why?”

And just before he’s about to answer her phone rings from inside her bag and he takes it as a sign. Instead of telling her he smiles, “I’ll tell you later. Night Clarke.”

He doesn’t wait for her response; he just turns on his heels and heads towards home. The smile on his face doesn’t go away until he’s back at home and sleep takes over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hey over on Tumblr (fourfinick)!


	4. Why Don't You Just Drop Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the continued support of this little series. Hope you're having as much fun as I am! Again, no beta. Mistakes belong to me!

_Night Thirty-Nine: A Heartbreaker_

“Tell me again why you’re here?” Bellamy yells across the bar as he scoops some ice into his cocktail shaker. “I thought you had some hot date?  Aren’t you supposed to be staring at some overpriced finger paintings at that new gallery across town?”

 

“I’ll have you know the artist that did those ‘overpriced finger paintings’ is one of the most cutting edge artists of our time. He’s gonna make it big. You just watch.” Clarke laughs, popping open two beer bottles.

 

“I’m sure he will.” He pours the martini and drops an olive into the clear concoction. “But I can almost guarantee I won’t know anything about it when he does.  Not my scene, Princess.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

“So again, my question: what the hell are you doing here?” Bellamy repeats his question, walking in her direction to grab the towel from her back pocket. “Spacewalker find a pair and put his foot down about not going?”

 

“Ha.  Ha.” She deadpans. “ _Finn_ couldn’t make it.  He has a big astrophysics test coming up.”

 

“So you decided to use your first night off in weeks to come in and pick up an extra shift?  You really are a different breed.”

 

Clarke glares at him, “I _was_ going to go to the exhibit anyway, but Nate called and said he could use an extra set of hands tonight — apparently he was under the impression we were going to be busy — so here I am.”

 

Well apparently their boss had been the only one under the impression they were going to be busy because in all honestly they weren’t.  Lincoln had taken up a game of pool with a patron while Bellamy and Clarke took the down time to do a much-needed review of the inventory.  They were steady, but nothing like the two were used to on their _really_ busy nights. It was a Thursday after all, so Bellamy wasn’t sure why Miller would assume they’d be busy, but he liked the company.

 

Of course he’d never admit to it.

 

“So here you are.” He smirks, tossing the towel back in her direction after he’s finished wiping down the counter. “Just can’t get enough of me, huh?”

 

Clarke just shakes her head with a scoff. She catches the towel easily and shoves a corner of the old fabric into her back pocket again. She starts toward the back, “I’m going to grab a case of Angry Orchard.  Try not to scare the few people we’ve got coming in tonight away, will ya’?”

 

“I make no promises.”

 

He tries not to focus on the way her hips sway as she turns away from him and heads toward the back room.  And he’s realizing with each passing day just how much he has to stop himself from focusing on one aspect or another when it comes to his fellow bartender. 

 

One day it’ll be the way that _one_ piece of blonde hair falls just perfectly around her face. The next night he’ll notice how she chews on her bottom lip when she’s counting down the register. And don’t even get him started on her ever-changing expressions when she’s speaking with patrons. It’s common knowledge at this point that Clarke Griffin has a terrible poker face. 

 

And what only makes matters worse is on the nights he feels her eyes on _him_. Bellamy could easily avoid this strange energy he feels around her if he didn’t whole-hearted believe that it was mutual, even just slightly.  But he’ll look up from speaking with a customer to see her eyes on him. He’ll be cleaning up the bar after closing and feel her concentrated stare on him from behind. And it doesn’t make him uncomfortable. In fact, it gives this strange surge to his system.

 

Which is ridiculous because they’re like oil and water. That’s been common knowledge since the beginning.  Sure, they’ve learned to work with each other.  They’ve learned to compliment each other in a professional setting — with only the occasional blow up — but that doesn’t translate.  Not always.  Not usually, and definitely not in this case.

 

Especially since there are significant others in the mix.  Okay, well _one_ significant other.  Bellamy’s string of casual hook-ups really shouldn’t count and they’ve all but become nonexistent since he started noticing his attention drifting for longer periods of time toward the blonde taking control of his bar and his thoughts. 

 

Again, he’d never admit to such a thing.

 

And he’s mostly convinced himself that what he’s feeling is something as small as a crush.  But that sounds so juvenile and too schoolgirl-like for a twenty-six year old male: at least in his opinion.  So he’ll chalk it up to lust.  Lust is something he’s _very_ familiar with. Lust is something his comfortable with. But if he’s brutally honest he knows this is not just lust. 

 

He’s washing a set of glasses when he hears her clanging reentry back at the bar.  She slings the case of bottles atop the counter and starts ripping into the box. She’s humming along to the jukebox and Bellamy feels a twist in his stomach as he watches her. But he quickly pulls his eyes away and groans.

 

“Fuck me.”

 

The bell above the door has both their eyes going toward it, tonight being a quiet enough that they can actually hear it. Lincoln is back at the door, leaning against a stool and checking the I.D. of the shaggy haired guy walking through the door. 

 

“Finn.” Clarke grins, setting down the bottles in her hand and starting to move from behind the bar. 

 

But she freezes and Bellamy’s eyes go wide when he sees a dark-haired girl follow in after _Clarke’s_ boyfriend.  And she’s certainly more than a friend because as soon as she’s finished showing Lincoln her I.D. her arms wrap around Finn’s middle and she places a sloppy kiss to his neck.

 

Clarke’s expression grows instantly dark with shock and hurt.  She’s still standing behind the bar watching as the two, still oblivious, start toward the bar. The girl is in the middle whispering something into Finn’s ear when the he finally glances up toward them and realizes what has just happened.

 

“Oh shit.” Bellamy mumbles, putting his own task to the side.

 

It’s either going to be a fight to the death or Clarke is going to have a complete meltdown.  He’s known the blonde long enough to believe it’s going to be the former and of course he’s going to need to get a punch in somewhere. This asshole is not only shady, but a complete idiot. 

 

“Clarke.” Finn says like he’s just been caught with his pants down.

 

Bellamy starts toward the middle of the bar, closer to where Clarke is standing.  Finn has all but pried this girl off of him and it’s then that Bellamy realizes that she has no idea what’s even going on.  She’s not the other woman at all — at least not as far she knows. This fucker is in a class all his own.

 

“How — what are you doing here?” Finn stumbles. “I thought you were off tonight.”

 

“Clarke?” The mysterious girl speaks up, leaning against the bar casually.  But there is a sudden edge to her voice.  And her eyes are going between the two of them like she’s trying to piece it all together. “Who is she?”

 

“Uh — she’s just a friend.” Finn cracks a nervous smile. “We — we have a couple of classes together.  Clarke, this is Raven.”

 

Bellamy’s eyes go from an anxious Finn to and completely still Clarke.  She hasn’t moved and the only give away to her current emotions is glassed over eyes. Her normal expressions are lost in the shock.  And Bellamy still finds himself inching closer to where he’s almost standing directly behind her in some unspoken towering support. 

 

And as much as he might have judged this Raven when she first walked in, he’s pretty sure he’s gotten her all wrong because she’s almost glaring just as hard at Finn as Clarke is at this point: both of them smelling his bullshit a mile away. 

 

“How are —“

 

“Fuck you.” Clarke hisses before turning to push past Bellamy and out toward the back of the bar. 

 

It’s right before she disappears through the doorway that Bellamy sees a tear fall down her cheek and a whole new level of anger boils up in him as he turns on Finn again.

 

“I think you need to go.” Bellamy’s voice is low as he leans against the bar.

 

He looks like he’s about to say something before Raven is grabbing his arm and harshly pulling him away.  If looks could kill he’s almost certain Finn would be dead at least three times over.  Finn doesn’t fight off her grab, but instead let’s her lead him back out the door and they aren’t even all the way out before he hears Raven demanding answers.

 

Lincoln, who has witnessed the whole exchange, gives Bellamy a concerned look.  He just shakes his head as he looks toward the direction Clarke went. He’s still for a moment, deciding his next move.  And it doesn’t take him long to decide.

 

“Miller!” He yells toward the office where his boss is holed up in. 

 

The man sticks his head out the door and looks at him and Bellamy walks closer toward to him, “You think you can handle this?”

 

He looks around the nearly empty bar, “Yeah. Everything alright?”

 

“Just fine.” Bellamy lies, reaching under the bar for his and Clarke’s jackets. “See you tomorrow.”

 

“Night.”

 

Miller is coming up behind the bar as Bellamy ducks through the back.  He glances around to see if Clarke’s hidden behind any of the cases of alcohol or maybe even started her way through a bottle of Jack.  And she hasn’t.  Well, at least not inside.

 

He walks toward the back door that leads to the alley and pushes it open.  He doesn’t have to look far to see her, leaning against the old brick just outside of the glowing overhead light. 

 

Bellamy steps outside, silently offering her jacket to her.  She quickly wipes at tears and sniffs before reaching for it.  They don’t speak as she slips into it and he quickly does the same with his old leather jacket.

 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Clarke insists, staring down at the ground.

 

“Fine by me.” Bellamy shrugs, pulling out his cell phone to check the time. “Come on.  We’re going to miss it.”

 

“Miss what?” She asks, her brow furrowing in confusion.

 

“Apparently there’s this guy on the cutting edge of art in town.” Bellamy offers, starting to walk backwards out of the alley. His steps are slow, unsure she’ll even go for his lame attempt to get tonight’s events off her mind.  “And I’m not about to miss it.”

 

Clarke watches him for a moment, her expression hard to read in the dim lighting. “You hate art.”

 

“But I’m a huge fan of finger paintings. Plus you never know, if this guy can make it I might be able to make some money off of Octavia’s old preschool projects.” Bellamy shrugs, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

 

And to his surprise Clarke actually cracks a smile as she starts walking toward him. 

 

“And afterwards I’m going to need a pretty strong drink.” She mumbles, reaching out and linking her arm through his. It’s not a common touch between them, but he sees how she relaxes against him and he’s not about to shy away from the contact.

 

“I think I know a pretty decent place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Come say hey over on Tumblr(fourfinick)!


	5. Lets Be Alone Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, this chapter was hard for me. Not for any terrible plot reason, but because it's like the in-between chapter. The set up, filler episode, if you will, for things to come. Just some fun, light flirty, heavy emotional finding type stuff. I hope you enjoy! Thanks again for your amazing support! Always, not beta-ed. My bad all around.

_Night Fifty-Three: A Bud Light Lime_

She drops her keys back into her bag as she deadbolts the door from inside the bar. Originally she had intended to come pick up her paycheck and head back out, but when Miller texted her that the bar was closed for the day she figured it would be the perfect place to finish prepping for her finales. So after finalizing her summer plans with her friend via Skype she had packed up her books and headed for her second home.

When Clarke had started here she had only been looking for a place to help her make ends meet. She’d been a bartender before, but in a rather hipster type place with shady business practices. Several employees —including the owner — had burned her and so this time she was going in with a strict business only policy. And then everything changed.

And that everything could be summarized pretty simply by —

“Bellamy?” She asks when she sees her co-worker leaning back at one of the pub tables with his feet propped up atop the vacant pool table.

She slowly walks toward him, dropping her bag on the green felt of the same table. She watches as he looks up from the book he’s reading. His unruly curls popping out from under a beanie she’s seen on several occasions. His usual flannel style shirt unbuttoned to reveal an old university t-shirt underneath and his worn jeans looking well loved with their paint stains and rips. He looks like the typical Bellamy, except for one thing: black-rimmed glasses sitting comfortably on the bridge of his nose.

The stir this causes inside her makes her cheeks warm as she bites down on her bottom lip and looks at her feet. She wants to make a clever comment, but first she needs to get her wits about her. When the fuck did a pair of glasses have such an affect on her?

 _When those glasses belong to Bellamy Blake_ , her mind reminds her.

“Princess.” He grins, dropping his feet off the pool table and sitting up straighter in his chair.

“What are you doing here?” Clarke asks, tugging at the zipper of her jacket and sliding it off her shoulders.

“Same as you, I assume.” He offers and she tries to decide if she imagines the way his eyes follow the line of her now bare arms. “Peace and quiet is hard to come by when you live with Miller, Murphy, and Octavia.”

“No wonder Octavia wants to come over all the time.” Clarke grins, walking back behind the bar. “How does she stand it with all three of you?”

“Don’t let her fool you.” Bellamy laughs, turning in his chair to watch her. “She runs the house.”

“I believe that.”

Clarke bends down to grab herself a Bud Light Lime and holds it up in Bellamy’s direction. He nods his acceptance of her wordless offer and she grabs another. Their silence is comfortable as she moves around the back of the bar. And yet another moment she never thought she’d have, especially after that first week at this place. Her and Bellamy’s start had been rocky to say the least and she only ever saw it going to a cordial existence. They’d speak during work in order not to kill each other, but then they’d go their separate ways.

Then somewhere along the line their arguments became farther and farther apart and that time was filled with conversations, introductions to new friends, and actually sharing in each other’s lives. Bellamy introduced her to Octavia and John Murphy — an introduction she still isn’t sure she’s thankful for; even if Bellamy swears he’s just a guy with a hard exterior. Clarke had introduced him to Monty and Jasper, who now prefer Bellamy’s presence to her own. Well, at least Jasper. Monty prefers Miller to either of them.

They were becoming quite the band of misfits and all because of this damn hole in the wall. Clarke wasn’t sure she’d ever want to leave. Maybe she’d drop out of school and just become a bartender, stay in this little bubble forever. She was sure Abby would just love that.

“So how are you?” He asks, breaking her thoughts up and she smiles at the tone in his voice. It’s the same tone he’s had since that night in the alley. Ever since Finn had shown up and proven just what kind of tool he was.

“Bellamy, it’s been three weeks.” She says, walking back over to the table and handing him his beer. “I think if I were going to jump off a cliff I would have done it by now. Don’t you?”

“Probably. But it never hurts to be sure.”

“Well I’m fine. Thanks for asking.” Clarke drinks from her bottle before resting her arms atop the table. “I’ve actually been talking to Raven.”  
Bellamy looks confused and that crocked expression under those glasses is almost more than Clarke can handle. “Raven? Who’s Ra — wait, you don’t mean that chick Finn was sleeping with on the side, do you? Have you lost your damn mind?”

“Down boy.” She points. “And if you must know, I was the other woman. Of course, neither of us knew about the other at the time. He — well, he used us both, I guess.”

It hurt. It still did, but the sharp pain that once was now came on like an occasional dull ache whenever she thought about how foolish she had been. How invested she allowed herself to become in a guy she knew for only a little over a month. But the pain was no longer over a love lost, but instead her bruised pride. How she’d blindly believed everything he had said. She should have known better.

“Well, he’s a double asshole then.” Bellamy offers, watching her with still a bit of concern.

Clarke shrugs casually, forcing a smile. “That he is. But Raven’s a pretty decent person. I think you’d like her — mouthy, just your type.”

“Do I look like I need to be set up, Princess?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t seen too many girls walking out with you recently.” Clarke smirks, trying to ignore the way her heart rate quickens at the territory of conversation they are heading in to.

“Ever think that’s by choice?” Bellamy asks and his question seems loaded. His stare alone is something that makes her stomach flutter with excitement.

“Is it?”

The tension between them only builds as they both just watch each other. Clarke can feel her skin prickle with an excitement she hasn’t allowed herself to explore yet. Her feelings toward Bellamy have always been such a gray area and every time she thinks she’s close to allowing herself an explanation something always makes her close herself off. She’s afraid. But it’s not of getting hurt. She’s afraid of the depth of her feelings. She’s not ready to fall that hard.

But she _could_. If she knew she wasn’t alone in the fall.

Bellamy leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. He watches her with an expression she can’t quite read, but it only does more to fuel her excitement.

And then her phone makes a noise and startles them both. She jumps, being the first to look away and she swears she hears him curse under his breath as he leans back in his seat, his hands reaching up to adjust his beanie. She doesn’t look at him again, just moves off her chair and heads toward her bag. She pulls out her phone to see it’s a text. Confirming all the travel information for this summer.

“Just a friend.” She offers up awkwardly, typing back her response. “Plans for this summer.”

“You heading back home?” He asks and she’s envious of how easily he seems to slip back into conversation. She wants to make him as off balance as he makes her.

“Oh no.” Clarke shakes her head as she finishes up with her phone, wordlessly putting it on silent before going back to her seat. “My friend is coming to stay with me actually. He’s pre-law. Got an internship out here and needs a place to crash.”

“ _He_.” Bellamy asks, with a raise of his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Moving on from Finn quite nicely, I see.”

“God no.” Clarke shakes her head, wrinkling her nose at the thought. “I mean, yes, but not with Wells. It’s nothing like that. We’ve been friends since before I can remember. Best friends. It’d be like you and Octavia.”

“Oh god, Princess.”

“Okay, probably not _exactly_ like that. But you know.” Clarke rephrases, laughing at the disgusted expression Bellamy gives her as he shakes his head.

“Yeah, unfortunately that’s not an analogy that can be untold.” He grimaces as he takes a drink from his beer. “Thanks for that.”

“Sorry.” She giggles, giving him a sympathetic look.

He shrugs, “What’s a day without being completely mortified by incest comparisons?”

“Not an interesting one, that’s for sure.”

“What final are you studying for?” He asks in easy transition, looking toward the textbooks on the pool table.

“Anatomy. Going to kick my ass too.” Clarke says, remembering why she’d come here in the first place. ”You?”

Bellamy holds up his book, a copy of Adam Smith’s The Wealth of Nations, that’s been sitting between them on the table since she walked in, “Would you believe it’s for fun?”

“For you?” Clarke asks with amusement, “Absolutely. Nothing says light reading like an in-depth manifesto of economics and philosophy. The glasses suit you perfectly, Nerd.”

“Ouch.” Bellamy groans, pressing his hand to his chest like he’s been wounded.

Clarke grins, getting up off her chair to walk back over toward her own stack of books and notes. “So do you mind if I join you in your quest for knowledge?”

“I insist.” He smiles.

With that, the room remains silent as Bellamy leans back in his chair. He takes up his original position with his feet propped up on the pool table and Clarke soon follows suit after she’s gotten all of her notes and books situated out on the table near her.

And when her ankle accidentally comes to rest up against his neither of them moves to correct the incident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hey on Tumblr (fourfinick)!


	6. Working On Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is long over due and I’m so terribly sorry about the wait. Real life happened, writer’s block happened, and honestly this chapter suffered because of it. Again, we’re still on the build up of things. They’ll start coming to a real head here soon. I’m pretty sure you’ll understand what I mean by the end of this chapter. Also(totally not important), if anyone finds my direct Ron Swanson reference I’ll love you forever.

_Night Seventy: A Happy Birthday Motherf*cker_

“He said he left them in Miller’s office.” Octavia grumbles as she huddles next to Bellamy under the too thin awning of the building to avoid getting anymore drenched from the sudden downpour. 

 

Bellamy fiddles his key into the two locks, finding this simple task annoyingly difficult due to the rain dripping into his eyes from his soaked hair, “And you needed your keys right this second, why?  Better question; why the hell does  _Lincoln_  have your keys?”

 

“He wanted to —“

 

“Nevermind.” Bellamy shakes his head, grinding his teeth due to the boil of anger that rises in his throat. “Answer the first question instead.”

 

His little sister rolls her eyes before glaring down at his hands, “Will you fucking move it already?”

 

“Yes, because I’m doing this on purpose.” He sighs before finally hearing the click of the lock and shoving the old, cantankerous door open and moving into the dark bar.

 

“Thank God.” Octavia groans and shoves past him into the dry building. 

 

Bellamy moves a bit slower as he shuts the door behind him and heads to a nearby wall to flip on the necessary switches so they won’t be tripping over barstools all the way to Miller’s office.  The lights illuminate the room and he catches the sight of a ‘Happy Birthday!’ banner draping down from the ceiling just as several dozens of heads pop up around the place. 

 

“SURPRISE!”

 

If the shouts and cheers that follow wasn’t enough to startle him, the flash of blonde hair that practically shoots across the room and into his arms is enough to completely floor him.  Her arms are around his neck hugging him tightly before he can truly register what has happened.  But the instant he does his arms squeeze around her waist.

 

His heart rate quickens and he knows it’s not just because of the sudden noise, but also because of the familiar body pressed against him.  And in this moment he remembers — like he ever  _really_  forgets — how much they’ve been dancing around each other.  Dancing around  _this_.  It’s a stare across the bar.  It’s a covert flirtatious comment that goes  _just_  past the line of friendly.  It’s the comfort in their silences.  It’s in the vulnerable moments that pass between them.  And Bellamy would feel embarrassed by his boyish crush if he weren’t nearly certain that he wasn’t standing in this territory alone. 

 

His eyes close for the briefest of moments when he feels her fingers at the back of his neck before she starts to unfold herself from him.  The moment probably lasts less that thirty seconds, but he feels a lifetime of thoughts wash over him.  And from the expression that flashes in her blue eyes he believes she feels them too. 

 

“Happy birthday.” She grins up at him and squeezes his arm before dropping her hand to her side. 

 

“Thanks Princess.” He smiles sincerely, holding her gaze for a moment longer before he looks around the bar and allows the rest of the world to creep in around them.  “But you’re a week early.”

 

Clarke laughs and glances back behind her where the rest of the crowd is starting to descend upon them.  She shoots him a look that leaves him begging for more as she says, “This is just the kickoff party.  Trust me, its only going to get better.”

 

“Can’t wait.” He manages to mumble before she disappears into the small crowd and he’s greeted by some of his party guests. 

 

If anyone notices the smallest of sudden intimacy between them nothing is said, except for the quick elbow in the side he receives from Octavia before she heads toward where Lincoln is standing. 

 

And again he’s reminded that his sister’s too smart for her own good.

 

\--

 

Parties weren’t normally Bellamy’s idea of a good time.  Small gatherings to watch a game or grab a bite were totally acceptable, but parties were another monster altogether.  When he’d been in his undergraduate days his tone had been a bit different.  There wasn’t a party that he’d miss if his basketball schedule would allow.  There wasn’t a keg stand he didn’t attempt and there wasn’t a skirt he hadn’t tried — and most of the times succeed — to chase. 

 

That had been back when his schooling had been funded by his athletic ability, but those scholarships ended with his eligibility and now that he was halfway through his graduate career with a little sister to support lavish parties seemed like a complete waste of time and energy. 

 

And parties centered on him?  Now that was something entirely out of his comfort zone.  Even when he’d been considered a star athlete in their little college town most of the time he’d avoid the limelight.  Well, most of the time  _after_  his outrageous and naïve freshman year.  Those were dark times.  Foolish times. 

 

His birthday had never been something really celebrated.  When his mother was around they’d barely have enough to scrap by for a typical day let alone a special one.  And anything extra he would have gotten he usually offered up for Octavia.  He wanted her to have it all.  Even if that “all” was nothing but a candy bar his mother had gotten him at the convenient store on her way home from work. 

 

So to have a surprise party thrown for him was something he’d always assumed he’d have no interest in.  Something that would make him uncomfortable and wish he could blend in with the surroundings.  But he should have known better, if Clarke has her hand in anything he’s usually okay with it. 

 

She’d invited their entire close inner circle, plus she’d managed to get some of his old college friends to attend.  The decorations were cheesy but surprisingly fitting.  The bar had been turned in to what Bellamy could only compare to a frat house with beer pong on one end of the room, a game of bags set up across the bar, Monty’s DJ booth in its full glory, and a rather large blow up pool complete with obnoxious animal-shaped floating devices. Which reminded him that he was going to kill Murphy for obviously letting her in on that rather embarrassing night.

 

He stood behind the bar — because some habits are hard to quit — with a beer in one hand as he leaned against the old top and watched the crowd enjoy themselves.  His eyes drifting toward Clarke as she spoke animatedly with Jasper and his date.  Maya?  He couldn’t remember exactly, but Clarke had introduced them a couple weeks back. 

 

“Is this how you always enjoy your parties?”

 

Bellamy glanced over to see Wells taking a seat on one of the empty stools and leaning back.  He grinned at the newest — well, newest to them all except Clarke —member of their rag-tag team and reached out to shake the man’s hand before holding up his beer bottle as a silent offer to grab him one.  Wells nodded and he moved toward the cooler.

 

“Just taking a break before my sister insists on another game of Pennies.” He cracks off the top easily and hands it across the bar.

 

“Happy birthday, man.” Wells smiles, giving him a salute with his beer bottle.

 

“Thanks.”

 

Bellamy taps his bottle against Wells’ and takes a quick sip. 

 

At first he hadn’t been too sure of the man across from him.  He seems nice enough — actually he seemed too nice for Bellamy’s taste.  Too proper.  Too sheltered.  Too polished.  Too  _perfect_.  The day Clarke had brought him into the bar to introduce him to everyone he’d been wearing Oxfords and a sweater vest.  In June.  On a  _Saturday_.  The boys had gotten a good kick out of that one, even joking around with him a little bit.  But when Wells started to push back with little remarks and not get offended right away, his fate was sealed.  He’d fit in just fine.

 

And he did. 

 

He’d only been in their small bubble for about three weeks, but he fell into place like he’d been there a lifetime.  Of course, there was a noticeable difference between himself and the rest of the gang.  Well, the rest of the gang except for Clarke.  Those two seemed cut from the same clothe.  The only difference was that Clarke had an edge to her.  An edge that Bellamy now realized came from the sudden heartaches in her life.  The type of heartaches Wells — at least to Bellamy’s knowledge — hadn’t experienced. 

 

“You guys out did yourselves.” Bellamy nods to the party around them and Wells laughs.

 

“Oh no man, this is all Clarke.  I don’t even think your sister helped out too much.”

 

For some reason that surprises him.  He knew Clarke had no doubt spearheaded the idea, but the fact that she took it  _all_  upon herself amazed him.

 

“Wow.” Bellamy smirks. “I knew she didn’t play well with others.”

 

“More like she doesn’t share well with others.” Wells corrects with a laugh.

 

And Bellamy’s about to say something, about to question what it is he means by his casual statement.  The one that rolls off his tongue like he’s telling him the sky is blue.  But at that particular moment the blonde of their current conversation rounds the bar and comes to stand next to Bellamy.

 

“I  _slave_  over this event and you two can’t even pull yourselves away form the bar?” Clarke complains, resting her arms atop the counter, naturally leaning toward the man beside her.  “Have you even tested the waters in the kiddie pool?  Monty’s been floating in there alone for almost an hour — I think our playlist will end before he climbs out.” 

 

All three of them glance over to see a relaxed Monty floating — well, really more like just sitting — atop an inflated whale inside the kiddie pool with his sunglasses on and sucking on a straw that’s attached to the two beers stuck to the sides of his hat.  He’s looking up at the small Tiki lights hanging from the ceiling and its then that Bellamy realizes the theme for this birthday party must be a small attempt at a luau.

 

“We’re just hydrating.” Wells offers with a smile. “And I’m pretty sure if another adult gets in that pool it’s going to bust.”

 

“Probably explains why Miller’s been circling around it like a shark.” Bellamy says as he takes another drink of his beer. “Contemplating if jumping in with Monty is worth soaking his polished floors.”

 

Clarke shakes her head and then moves her attention across the bar to a new face in their crowd.  Bellamy noticed her earlier in the evening, but hadn’t been around anyone who knew who she was.

 

“Wells, who’d you bring along with you?” Clarke asks, like she’s known the missing piece of the puzzle all evening.

 

He turns his head over his shoulder to see the girl speaking with Raven and while Raven is speaking rather animatedly, with her typical confidence, the other girl just watches her with what seems to be a cool exterior.  But the smile playing across her lips betrays her and makes her look  _almost_  approachable. 

 

“Oh, Lexa.  Sorry, I meant to introduce you guys earlier but the party was in full swing when we got here.  And you were off being the hostess with the most-est.” Wells jokes, looking back at the two behind the bar. “She’s another intern at the firm I’m at.  Her girlfriend just broke up with her so I thought I’d bring her along.  Hope that’s alright?”

 

“The more the merrier.” Clarke says and it’s not lost on Wells or Bellamy just how long her eyes linger on the quiet brunette across the bar.

 

\--

 

Spiraling out of control is probably the most accurate description Bellamy will use for this night when he sobers up in the morning because soon after Wells, Clarke and he finish their conversation about Wells’ coworker they are all three pulled into a rather intoxicating game of bags.  Which Octavia has deemed the rules to be that basically whatever happens someone — or more than likely  _everyone_  — is drinking.   

 

You missed the board entirely? Drink!  You hit the board, but didn’t actually make the shot? Drink!  You made the shot?  Everyone else drinks!  You’re in the nearby vicinity and hear someone yell, “drink”?  Well, you better motherfucking drink. 

 

It’s only a four-person game, but within the first round two bottles of vodka are empty and the entire party is a little worse for wear. 

 

Bellamy taps out during the third game after nearly eight shots of tequila — because clear alcohol is for rich women on diets.  He lets Murphy take his place while he leans against one of the round tables and tries to remember when it all started blurring together.  His head is between his hands as he shuts his eyes hoping the room would hold still for just a second when he reopens them.  And on top of that his mood has turned sour.  He’s not sure if it’s the lethal amounts of hard liquor he’s suddenly consumed or the fact that he’s watched Clarke get closer and closer with Lexa since their informal introduction by Wells earlier in the evening. 

 

He watches Clarke laugh at something Lexa has said and sees them both sway in the familiar drunken way that he had been before he finding stability against this table.  They’re not overly friendly, but in Bellamy’s diluted mind they might as well be fucking against the wall.  His jealousy boils up in him and he grimaces at the bitter taste. 

 

He’s past rational thinking and the more he tries the worse his thoughts get.  And he’s reminded of why he avoids heavy drinking altogether.  Instead of reaching for a glass of water he knows he should have he grabs a beer from the bucket of ice that’s melted into cold water.  He’s still watching Clarke from across the room.  Her eyes are on the bags game between them, but her attention is obviously on the story Lexa is animatedly telling her.  And Bellamy boils a little bit more.  Of course,  _now_  the girl has found her personality. 

 

The bottle is just about to his lips when he feels someone tug it from his grasp.  His drunken whine leaves his lips before he has a chance to suppress it.  His glare and jaw are firmly set when he looks to see who has just taken his chosen drink.  But his thief doesn’t seem to mind.  Instead she’s just laughing coolly and taking a swig of it herself. 

 

“Probably should take a break.  You nearly face planted on the way over here.” Raven smirks, her eyes still on the group playing and drinking in front of them. “You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

 

“I doubt that.” He grumbles.

 

“What happened, Birthday Boy?” She asks. “Who pissed in your shot glass?”

 

He doesn’t say anything because even through the haze of his drunken mind he knows the reason for his attitude is an overreaction, unmerited, and immature one.  But that doesn’t stop him glaring holes into the brunette who has really done absolutely  _nothing_  wrong other than do what he apparently doesn’t have the balls to do.

 

Openly flirt with Clarke Griffin.

 

Raven glances across the room in the direction of his eye line, but if she notices — and he knows she does, because Raven is one of the smartest people he’s met — she doesn’t say anything.  Instead she looks back at him and starts to pull on her jacket.  She reaches one hand up to pull her ponytail out from beneath the collar while the other taps down on the table. 

 

“It’s been a pretty fun night, but I think I’m out of here before I get caught holding someone’s hair while they puke.” She says, her eyes turning to where Octavia is all but asleep against Lincoln’s shoulder. “Thank Clarke for me, will you?”

 

Bellamy grunts as his shoulders slump further down around him.  He doesn’t bother looking back over in Clarke’s direction; instead his eyes linger on the long column of Raven’s neck.  The way her eyes glimmer with amusement and he’s impressed with how he’s watched her drink at least as much as everyone else and she still has her wits about her.  He’s impressed.

 

And he’s drunk. 

 

He stands up, suddenly with purpose and looks at her with intent focus.  Trying to convince himself he’s  _not_  intoxicated. 

 

“I’ll walk you home.”

 

Raven just stares at him for a long while but giving a curt nod.  She starts heading toward the door and Bellamy soon follows.  He doesn’t bid any farewells and he doesn’t look back at the party.

 

And he doesn’t see Clarke watching him hold the door for Raven as they leave.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed…*bites nails nervously* Again, no beta. All mistakes were mine. Come find me over on Tumblr (fourfinick)!


	7. Take Your Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all are so good to me! Thank you so, so much for the continued love this story gets. And now it's been nominated for Best College AU over at the Bellarke Fanfiction Awards over on Tumblr. Feel free to vote, if you think about it. But just know I am forever grateful just to be nominated so thank you so, so much! This chapter was fun to write, I have to say. But, like always, I'm nervous. I hope it meets your expectations. Enjoy!

_Night Seventy-Four: A Walk of Shame_

“You can’t avoid her forever, man.”

 

And he knew it was the truth, but avoidance seemed much more appealing than confronting his embarrassing display of drunken immaturity. Bellamy rubbed the back of his neck as he listened to Miller harp at him as he crunched the numbers at his desk. He couldn’t believe what he was actually attempting to do: call in “sick”. Call in _anything_ in order not to face Clarke again. 

 

Again being the key word. 

 

Because the day after his wonderful display of excellent friendship — or whatever the fuck they were dancing around — he’d come into the bar for his shift and she’d all but murdered him in cold blood and the worst part was probably everyone they knew would help hide the body instead of condone her for the act.  Hell, he’d probably help to if it weren’t _his_ body. 

 

Of course, after her initial “talk to me and I’ll cut your fucking face off” blowup at him there had been complete and total radio silence on her end. And he’d let it go.  At least initially, because he deserved it and she needed her space. But on the second night he’d figured the white flags would come up and they’d be able to actually have a conversation about it.  He’d been wrong. In fact, every time he even tried to speak with her she’d simply look at him like he’s sprouted horns and then turn and walk away. 

 

Clarke Griffin was good at a lot of things, but she was a fucking professional at giving the cold shoulder. And every time he saw her he wanted to explain himself while simultaneously screaming at her for being such a stubborn brat.  So now, nearly a week after his birthday party he was pleading in Miller’s office to cover his shift because he was sure he couldn’t stand another night of cold glares and nearly nonexistent conversation. 

 

“I’m not _avoiding_ —“

 

His lie is cut short by Miller’s no nonsense look. He wasn’t fooling anyone at this point. He knew their entire circle was aware of his mistake — probably the entire town was on alert at this point. But he’d barely been able to speak his side.  It sounded immature and selfish, but he knew if he could just _talk_ to Clarke he could start to mend this. 

 

“I can’t talk to her!” Bellamy blurts out, running his hands over his face before shrugging in defeat. “I’ve fucking tried and I get a cold shoulder every.  Single. Time.  I can’t work another shift like that.”

 

Miller doesn’t say anything, just finishing counting the drawer before throwing the deposit inside the old bank bag sitting atop his desk.  He adjusts his beanie as he stands up and looks at his longtime friend.  His expression is slightly amused until he sees what must be a rather pathetic look on Bellamy’s face because he frowns.  He slaps him on the shoulder as he walks past him and out into the empty bar to put away the register drawer.

 

“You screwed up.” He states and Bellamy wants to pummel him for his obvious honesty. “But this was all about to come to a head anyway.”

 

Bellamy follows him, leaning against the bar. He wrinkles his forehead and shakes his head, “What was about to come to a head?”

 

“You and Clarke.” Miller says like he’s talking about the weather.  He doesn’t even bother to look at his bartender, but instead starts to recount the drawer and change out larger bills.  “You two have been dancing around each other since that first night.  And look, you know I love you man, but you’re a fucking moron.”

 

He was sure a feather in hurricane winds was more stable than Bellamy was at this moment.  He just stands there staring at his roommate and boss.  What the hell was this guy talking about? They hadn’t been dancing around each other.  And certainly _not_ since that first night. They’d barely made it out of that night alive.  It hadn’t been until just recently that Bellamy had even started to consider that this could be _something_ at all.

 

Sure, they worked well together. They were like oil and water when they disagreed, but at their core it was because they are fundamentally the same. They’re approaches are vastly different. He is all passion and instinct and she is logic and compassion.  She pushes him when no one has ever really stood up to him before. He didn’t fall into her well-organized idea of a plan.  And yet now he looks for her in everything and she considers him whenever she does something.

 

_You’re a fucking moron._

 

He thought this had been a new development. But this has been a long time coming.

 

Miller watches him as he slams the register door closed and gives a small laugh, “Fuck or get off the sheets, man.”

 

And without another word Miller takes off out of the bar, leaving Bellamy to finish opening up.  Leaving Bellamy to work his shift with Clarke.

 

\--

 

The night moves in slow motion. Not because they aren’t busy, they are. They are nearly busting at the seams. The college crowd has been replaced by the vacationing crowd so the atmosphere is a bit different and the drink ordered are more sophisticated at times — because if you’re on vacation you’re not there for ten dollar buckets or five dollar pitchers. You can get that at your watering hole back home. 

 

You’re here to try something different, because this is vacation.  And you are here to escape the normality of your life even if it’s just for a week with an overpriced brightly colored cocktail and sunburn.

 

But Bellamy doesn’t complain. Because complicated drink orders means he has something else to focus on other than Clarke’s frozen demeanor and harsh tone when he actually does get a word out of her.  And it’s usually nothing more than a small sentence about their current alcohol stock or how he did a piss poor job at cleaning the martini glasses last night.

 

He’s learning a pissed off Clarke is an over critical Clarke and as much as it frustrates him he’s still reeling from his earlier “discovery” with Miller and he’s off his game.  So instead of his usual crabby banter in return he just takes her cold comments in stride and continues.  And it throws her.  He can see it in the way she watches him when there’s a moment of calm.  She’s studying him and her expression looks like a mix of concern and empathy.  It’s a strange combination and he’s not sure he likes it. 

 

He prefers her to be pissed instead of looking like she might break.  What he hates the most is that he’s the reason for this sudden wash of emotions. He wants to apologize, the bigger part of him really does.  But the immature twinge in him causes him to dig in his heels.  To _at the very least_ get his side of the story out there for the world to know.  Scratch that, fuck the world.  For Clarke to know.   

 

He glances over at her in between customers and he’s about to say something, but she’s moving again, grabbing a rag and starting to wipe down a newly emptied spot at the bar.

 

“Bud Selects are low.” She says, glancing over her shoulder at him. “Grab them?”

 

It’s a question.  And it shouldn’t be a big deal.  But it is.  That’s the first — terribly tiny — sign that she’s coming around.  Because before then all of her comments had been demands. Barking at him to do this or that. Telling him if he’d stop slacking then maybe they’d get through this shift with more than enough energy to walk out the door.  Throwing all of her anger into every statement she tossed at him. 

 

“You actually talking to me now?” He asks, a smirk threatening to cross his lips. 

She pauses for a minute, looking down at her shoes and then up again.  She’s staring across the bar like she’s calculating her words.  Deciding her next move because she’s fighting herself. She doesn’t want to _speak_ to him.  She wants to scream at him.  She wants to remain angry with him.  And that hurts more than any side comment she’s tossed his way thus far. 

 

She finally turns her head to look at him; her beautiful blue eyes are hard but not cold.

 

“I’m _acknowledging_ you.” She enunciates the word to make sure he understands the difference. She’s coming around. But she’s not there yet. And she’s not making any promises to when — or if — she will. 

 

Bellamy gives a short nod because it’s not what he wants.  But it’s something. And it’s really all he can ask for right this second in the middle of a busy shift.  He disappears to the back to grab her requested bottles.

 

\--

 

The bar clears out fairly early. Bellamy doesn’t even get a chance to yell last call before the last patron stumbles out with his arm around his wife.  Because vacation might mean trying new things, but that doesn’t mean you can handle it all at once. And nothing against the older generations, but Bellamy’s come to learn that their ideas are a lot larger than their true alcohol tolerance.  

 

Lincoln locks the door before moving behind the bar to try his hand at mixing a couple of drinks since Clarke and Bellamy haven’t really offered to start up their tradition of making a drink to summarize their shifts since his birthday party.  But the burley man isn’t about to let their conflict interrupt his nightcap so he’s started offering up his limited expertise.  Usually it ends with a terrible shot no one can drink to its entirety or three overly frothed drafts sitting atop the counter. Either way, Bellamy and Clarke take their share without a word and continue working. 

 

“I’m thinking something blue tonight.” Lincoln announces, clapping his hands together as he views the different bottles of hard liquor like a mad scientist looking over his tools.

 

“Because vomit is always better when tinted the color of the sea.” Bellamy grumbles as he tosses several empty bottles into the recycling bin.  He hears Clarke’s small giggle from across the bar, but when he looks up she’s frowning and doesn’t even glance at him. 

 

And Lincoln hears nothing as he sits three shots atop the bar and starts filling the glasses half with UV Blue before turning around for another bottle and Bellamy’s stomach sours instantly when he sees the man grab the bottle of Everclear.  And much to his dismay, Lincoln tops of the shot from hell with the clear liquid and looks at his new creation with such pride.

 

“Orders up!” He grins, looking down at the shot glasses.  With great trepidation both Bellamy and Clarke make their way back to the bar. “I’m calling this Poseidon.”

 

Lincoln grabs his shot first and holds it up for a quick cheer.  Bellamy and Clarke both click their shots before downing the burning liquid.  Both their faces turn into wrinkled messes as they slam their empty glasses back down.  Bellamy is certain he’s never tasted such a foul concoction in his life.

 

“I think you mispronounced poison.” Clarke coughs, shaking her head and wiping her mouth. 

 

“That’s it.” Bellamy points, shaking his head as he gestures toward the end of the bar. “Get out from behind the bar. You’re no longer allowed back there. Ever.”

 

The man isn’t even able to argue because he is too busy grabbing for the nearest cup to fill with water to wash away the residue of his latest attempt at being a bartender.  He laughs, shaking his head as he makes he way back out from behind the bar.

 

Clarke is quickly taking his place, grabbing two more glasses and setting them atop the wooden finish. She fills them both with water and slides one toward Bellamy.  She doesn’t say anything, just takes a long swig from her cup before moving to wash the three shot glasses. 

 

Bellamy watches her for a long moment. He’s contemplating if he should say something.  Well, maybe so much if he should.  He knows he should. But he also knows he’s got himself a small window.  She’s not likely to listen to him for long, if at all, and he has to make it count. He’s gone over several hundred times the things he wants to say to her.  And each time he somehow comes up stuck on his words. 

 

He’s losing his nerve, Clarke is walking away from him again and before he lets another moment slip away he spits out, “I didn’t sleep with Raven.”

 

It’s probably not what he should have started with. That should probably been reserved for an apology.  But now it’s out there and he’s staring down at his glass of water while he clenches his jaw together waiting for the inevitable explosion.  He sees her stop, her back still to him.  Time seems to stand still as he watches her slowly set down her rag atop the counter and turn his way.

 

“I know.” She says and he’s suddenly enraged.

 

She _knows_? She knows he didn’t sleep with Raven that night and he’s been thinking that was the whole reason she was pissed. He had all of these elaborate plans to tell her he hadn’t been that much of an ass.  That they’d barely made it outside the bar before Raven pushed him in the direction of his house instead of hers.  He hadn’t even argued.  Just let her walk with him in silence before he stumbled up his front steps and to his bedroom.

 

Of course, he puked in the bushes by his mailbox first. His crowning moment of the whole evening, obviously. Raven had laughed, saying she’d text Miller to bring home red Gatorade and was on her way.  He’d already apologized to her for that night and she’d just taken it on the chin.  Telling him to pull his head out of his ass.  She wasn’t the one he needed to apologize to. 

 

And he knew that.  He still knows that.  But now he’s annoyed as he stares back at her with confusion.

 

“Raven and I talk.” Clarke states like she’s sharing some well-kept secret.

 

He doesn’t say anything as he watches Clarke walk toward him, Lincoln has suspiciously disappeared from the front room and he’s pretty sure its because the man is smart enough to see a storm when its coming.

 

“You’re a real moron sometimes, you know that?” She says, her voice low.

 

“So I’ve been told.” He mumbles.

 

“You thought I was mad at you for _sleeping with Raven_?” She asks, her arms crossing over her chest.  “I am pissed because you just _left_ that night. I did all of that _for you_ and you didn’t even have the decency to say a word of gratitude.  Not a fucking word, Bellamy.”

 

“I’m sorry — I was drunk and you were — “

 

“You were drunk and being immature.” Clarke corrects him. “You were jealous.  And it’s not a good enough excuse, so I’m going to need something else.”

 

She glares at him and he can tell she’s ready for a fight.  Ready for him to throw something back at her like they usually do.  Neither of them is known for giving in to a fight. They’d rather go down in a blaze of regret than that.  But their fights have never seemed this loaded.  Fueled by something else other than miscommunication and Bellamy’s too afraid of what the repercussions would be if he pushes this too far.

 

“I’m sorry.” He sighs, because he doesn’t have a better reason.  He knows there was no excuse for his behavior.  And he hurt her all because he was jealous.  And didn’t have the balls to do anything about it. 

 

Clarke stares at him and her expression is unreadable, but it causes him to fidget in place for a moment.  He wants her to say something, _anything_. Is she still mad? Are they going to continue this god-forsaken dance for another five months? It’s all on her and she’s holding it together like a fucking mime.  He knows she wasn’t expecting his white flag to wave so quickly.  But he’s tired of stepping around each other.

 

“Well I’m glad you’re sorry, but that — that — “

 

“Lincoln.” Bellamy calls out and stopping Clarke’s stuttering attempt to argue; his eyes don’t leave her’s until he sees the other man pop his head out from the backroom.  He’s obviously been listening and he looks like the cat that just got caught stalking the canary. “We can close up.  Go ahead and head out.”

 

“I don’t mind helping out —“

 

“Now.  Thanks.” Bellamy demands, glancing from Lincoln to the door. And he gets the hint.

 

Lincoln moves toward the front door without another argument and Bellamy follows.  Lincoln mumbles something about having a good night, but Bellamy barely hears him as he all but pushes him through the door and bolts it behind him. When he turns around he sees Clarke has come to stand near the middle of the bar and her stance would almost be comical if Bellamy hadn’t suddenly gotten tunnel vision. 

 

She looks like she’s ready for battle. This is the fight she’s been waiting for and she’s almost like a child on Christmas.  If there is one thing Clarke always seems ready for it’s a good screaming match with Bellamy.  She’s found her equal in him.  She gives him a millisecond to say something and when he doesn’t she opens her mouth to start in on him.  

 

“You are such an ass.” She begins, her voice louder now that she knows they don’t have an audience.  Bellamy is already walking toward her and his purpose isn’t clear until he sees the way her chest heaves in frustration and her blue eyes have a new focus in them.  “You really thought I was —“

 

He stops her probably well-practiced rampage the only way he can think of in that moment.  His hands cup around her neck as he crashes her lips to his. Their bodies collide in the most perfect way.  He hears a barely audible gasp escape her lips before she’s kissing him back.  Her hands gripping the material of his t-shirt as her arms wrap around his waist. 

 

He’d imagined kissing her numerous times. Each one more romantic and more serene then the last, but as her hands move up to tangle themselves around his shoulders and his own arms move to securely place themselves on her waist in order to lift her securely around him he’s certain this is perfect.

 

This is exactly how it was supposed to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, not beta-ed. All mistakes belong to me. And FYI - the chapter rating will be due to the next chapter forward. Beware or be excited, either way. Thanks again for reading!


	8. Zipper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update was a long time coming! But I hope it's worth the wait! Thanks again for all the love this story has been getting! You guys are too awesome. Also, please note the rating — this is where things start to get M to E rated. Enjoy!

_Night One-Hundred: A Mountain Dew Me_

 

It should have happened weeks ago. 

 

If Bellamy or Clarke had had their way, it would have happened  _that_  night.  And very much would have happened right there on the pool table Bellamy moved her on to — even if it was a total porn cliché.  If only Miller hadn’t forgotten his fucking cell phone in his office and decided right then was the time to retrieve it.  The moment had been awkward for Clarke, tucking herself behind Bellamy’s shoulder while he and Miller had a quick conversation.  Miller only leaving after he made sure the two took it elsewhere or planned on resurfacing his pool table once they were finished.

 

Needless to say the mood was killed. 

 

And then life had happened. 

 

First at Bellamy’s place; his shirt lost almost as soon as they walked in the door.  Clarke propped up on the counter with her legs securely wrapped around his waist.  Leaving just enough room for her to reach down and undo his belt.  And Bellamy was more than willing to let her as his lips made an easy path down her jawline.  Of course, Octavia’s shift had ended early.  And thus the mood was killed and Octavia’s jabs have yet to die.

 

Then there was the near friendship-altering moment at Clarke’s apartment; they’d barely made it inside before Bellamy had her sprawled across the sofa, skirt pushed up around her hips with his head buried between her legs.  It was only fitting since he’d spent most of the bus ride whispering completely inappropriate things about how fucking fantastic she probably tasted.  He just  _had_  to find out.  Of course, Wells had other plans.  And it would have been an entirely different scenario he walked in on if he hadn’t fumbled with his keys against the lock, giving Bellamy and Clarke enough time to get their act somewhat together.

 

And their attempts continued to be just that: attempts.

 

Fortunately the physical side seemed to be the only real hiccup they faced those first several weeks and getting to know each other was something they both enjoyed.  Spending late nights eating terrible fast food lying on Bellamy’s bed too exhausted after working at the bar to do anything else.  When they were walking around Clarke’s neighborhood and window-shopping on a Sunday morning with absolutely no intent on buying anything.  Or just hanging out in the bar afterhours with their friends like they did before.

 

Except now they seem to be gravitating toward each other.  Bellamy will come up behind Clarke at the bar and rest his hands on either side of her.  Clarke will stand between his legs while he’s sitting atop one of the bar stools.  And it seems like the most natural progression.  None of their friends really ask questions about it.  In fact, the only real mention of the new development had been Jasper walking around collecting cash from everyone.

 

Bellamy had almost been ready to argue until he saw Clarke pull out her own money for the pool and he just stared at her, mouth agape.

 

“What?” Clarke had laughed, “I assumed you’d pull your head out of your ass  _a lot_  faster than you did.  Apparently I didn’t know you well enough.”

 

“Apparently.” He mumbled, pulling her against him.

 

Just like that, it all fit.

 

\--

 

And that’s how they ended up here: over three weeks later still dancing around each other behind the bar, but Bellamy swears if Clarke doesn’t stop doing that little shake of her ass when she  _knows_  he’s looking he’ll lose his mind.  And Clarke is about to lose her cool every time she feels Bellamy’s fingers graze across that certain spot just above her hip that he  _knows_  drives her mad. 

 

At first the sexual tension had been something exciting.  Clarke looked forward to teasing Bellamy with light kisses to his neck whenever she could and Bellamy lived to run ghost-like touches down her bare arms at any possible moment.  It made the anticipation almost palpable.  But within a short week the anticipation turned into frustration when time and time again one friend or another interrupts their plans. 

 

Bellamy had never thought “alone time” was something of a problem for him in past relationships, but then he realized he’d always gone back to  _their_  house whenever he had a hookup.  And since he and Clarke, at least for the summer, lived in what could only be described as hotels, “alone” was the furthest thing from what they were.  And if there ever was a time when one of their humble abodes was empty it usually meant the other was stuck at work or a summer seminar. 

 

The stars were not aligned.

 

But fortunately Clarke was never really one for astronomy. 

 

“Two Bud Lights.”

 

Clarke smiles across the bar and goes to work on the easy order.  She grabs two cups and starts filling up each respectively from the kegs.  Once she has finished she goes to move the cups back in front of the patron and that’s when Murphy collides with her arm, sending one of the drinks straight to the floor and all over her bare legs. 

 

“Jesus, Murphy.” She glares at him as he continues to push past her. “Miller had to be on something when he thought  _you’d_ be a great addition.”

 

He barely glances back at her as he heads to the opposite corner of the bar where he instantly engages in conversation with two beautiful women.  Clarke is left fuming as she quickly apologizes to her customer and moves to fill up yet another cup of beer. 

 

The bar has been doing more business than ever and Miller, being the rather nonsocial individual that he is sometimes, decides that it was as good a time as any to add another bartender.  At first Bellamy and Clarke argue against the idea.  They don’t need any help back there — the irony of the situation isn’t lost on either as they remember how they originally met — but then working five to six days or nights a week becomes working seven days  _and_  nights a week.  They are exhausted.  So silently they start to welcome the idea.

 

And then Murphy shows up behind the bar one night and Clarke nearly losses her lunch.  Sure, he’s their and maybe he isn’t  _that_  bad.  But he has zero bartending experience and not much more personality, in Clarke’s opinion.  Their Yelp rating is going to tank, she knows it. 

 

“Fuck me.” She mutters under her breath.

 

“I plan to.” Bellamy’s voice is deep against her ear as she feels his arm wrap around her middle for the briefest of moments as he gracefully slides past her on his way to the cooler.

 

Her frustrated groan comes out before she can stop it.  She feels the heat rising in her cheeks and the room suddenly feels a hundred times warmer than it had before.  She quickly drops off her newly poured beverage and starts a tab for the rather amused looking guy — she tries to pretend it’s not because of her hot and bothered demeanor. 

 

She glances over her shoulder to see Bellamy caring a box out of the back.  She feels like a sex-starved teenager as she watches the way his arms flex beneath the plaid material of his old shirt.  He’s wearing that terribly old baseball cap of his, the bill pushed to the back of his head.  Her fucking weakness is Bellamy in hats and he damn well knows it. 

 

Her hands tighten around the old edge of the bar as her eyes swiftly scan across the room.  The crowd is still lingering around, even though last call will be in about thirty minutes.  Thirty minutes.  She can manage to wait thirty minutes, right? 

 

But it won’t  _be_  thirty minutes.   It’ll be at least another two hours before they finally manage to get the last of the crowd out the door.  And then another hour to restock, count down the drawer, and clean up the place.  Of course, then they’d have to get rid of Murphy and Lincoln before finally locking the goddamn door.  And she was so beyond even trying to get him back to her place.  But still, thirty minutes was just the tipping point. 

 

And Clarke wasn’t willing to wait another thirty  _seconds_. 

 

She glances over to where Murphy is finishing up a drink order for the women he’d been speaking with and then she looks toward where Bellamy is restocking the fridge with hard lemonades.  That’s it, decision made.  She pushes herself away from the bar, walking toward Bellamy like a predator toward her prey. 

 

Without saying a word, she grabs his arm and starts pulling him away from his task.  Whatever Bellamy says is lost in her determined state. 

 

“Murphy,” She speaks as they near him. “It’s do or die time, we’ll be back in twenty.”

 

“What the fuck?” Murphy asks, holding his hands up to an equally confused Bellamy as Clarke pulls them toward Miller’s locked office. 

 

And as if it all becomes clear to Bellamy he shouts over his shoulder, “Make it thirty.”

 

Clarke feels Bellamy press up against her when she stops long enough to pull the keys from her pocket and work the lock to Miller’s office.  His hands are tight on her hips as he bites at the side of her neck.  She’d be completely mortified with how exposed they are in this moment if she wasn’t utterly desperate for him. 

 

When the door finally pushed forward, they all but stumble inside and Bellamy’s shutting the door with a quiet click of the lock.  He then flips the switch next to him and as the lights come on above them Clarke wastes no time pressing him against the door, her lips finding his as she makes quick work of the buttons on his shirt. 

 

Before she removes the shirt, she’s using it to tug him forward and onto the old leather coach.  Bellamy easily falls into the plush cushions, looking up at her like she’s out of her fucking mind and he’s enjoying every second of it.  Before Clarke can lose any of her newfound nerve she’s removing her top, tossing it somewhere in the mess of Miller’s office, and straddling his lap.

 

Bellamy leans forward then, crashing their bodies together as Clarke’s arms circle around his neck.  He’s kissing along her collarbone as his hands slide up the smooth column of her spine.  Clarke’s head tilts back in awe at just how pliable she is against his touch.  She’s total putty in his hands and it excites her.

 

Soon Bellamy’s got her bra unclasped and the straps are sliding down her arms, to be tossed away and lost with her shirt.  When his lips enclose around one of her hardened nipples, Clarke gasps his name out like a prayer.  Her hips grind against his and she can feel his excitement beneath the denim of his jeans. 

 

Her hands move up to entangle in the hairs at the nape of his neck.  She pulls his head up that way, to capture his lips with hers.  As their tongues battle for a dominance neither are really all that adamant to win, she pushes the hat off of his head.  And then her hands are moving back down his chest, pushing his old shirt down his shoulders.  Revealing that chest she swears God spent His day of rest sculpting. 

 

Bellamy untangles his arms from around her long enough to completely remove the garment, but soon his arms are reattached to her.  One hand rests just below her exposed breasts while the other subtly pushes against the small of her back, just above the waistband of her shorts, causing her to continually move against him in a slow rocking motion. 

 

Soon they’re both lost in each other.  Their frenzied movements have slowed to a lingering need.  Their passion has changed from a cascading fire to a quiet burn.  But as much as Clarke enjoys this moment, her need is nearly pulling her apart form within so without much warning, she pulls herself away, going to stand in front of Bellamy.

 

If she weren’t dizzy with lust already the display in front of her would send her toppling over.  Bellamy’s chest heaving and his curls tangled in the most adorable way.  His pupils are blown with desire and his lips look thoroughly kissed.  It’s a mesmerizing sight.  And it’s all for her. 

 

Slowly, putting on more of a show than she had intended when she stood, she’s undoing the button of her shorts and letting them slide to the floor.  She’s mentally thanking her earlier self for not picking the most comfortable pair of underwear she owned, but instead the most appealing. 

 

She teases with her hands just above the elastic of her panties, but before she can do anything else, Bellamy is on the edge of the sofa.  His face now level with her lower abdomen and hips.  His lips leave a trail of wet kisses from her belly button to her hipbone.  Normally she’d feel insecure about the college weight she’s been carrying around for quite awhile, but the way he looks up at her like she’s a goddess to be worshiped makes any uncertainties vanish. 

 

Before long, she feels his fingers loop through each side of her and tugging down on the lacy fabric.  She moves her hips just slightly and before long the last of her clothes is falling to her ankles.  Bellamy runs his hand up her inner thigh, allowing his finger to dip just past her soaked folds.  Clarke has to reach out and balance herself against her shoulder when she feelings him slide inside her so easily. 

 

He slowly strokes her while nipping on her hipbone gently.  Clarke’s moans come out in breathless gasps at how sensitive she is.  Her skin nearly tingles with awareness.  But she doesn’t want this to go much longer, she needs him and she’s at her wits’ end. 

 

“Condom.” She chokes out, pushing him against the back of the couch.

 

Bellamy easily adjusts to his side so he can pull out his wallet to the condom she knows he’s been carrying — ready to use.  Clarke takes this opportunity to drop to her knees in front of him.  She doesn’t wait for his permission to reach forward and start to undo his belt, taking extra care to run her hand over his obvious erection.  Bellamy watches her with a mix of desire and amazement in his eyes; something that only fuels Clarke’s fire. 

 

Once his pants are undone, Clarke starts to tug, cluing Bellamy in to lift his hips.  When he does, she finishes pushing his jeans down, smiling hungrily at his cock.  She has truly never been one for oral sex, but sitting there now her mouth all but waters with anticipation.  She looks up briefly, removing the condom from Bellamy’s hand and tearing open the package.

 

She makes takes her time rolling the latex down his hardened cock, her lips ghosting over the head before looking up at him with a seductive smirk. 

 

Bellamy has obviously had enough of her teasing because he reaches forward, pulling her back to be straddling him.  She giggles lightly against his lips, feeling very aware of how perfectly aligned they now are.  Bellamy’s fingers slide against the sweat-sheened side of her hip and suddenly the quiet around them seems overwhelming to her hyped senses. 

 

With a steady kiss to his lips, Clarke slowly starts to push down against him.  Her mouth opens in a silent gasp as she feels the stretch of him filling her.  Her nails dig red lines across his shoulders and his forehead rests atop her shoulder.  And inch-by-inch she takes him in and Bellamy groans when he’s to the hilt within her. 

 

A brief moment passes between them as she adjusts to the new sensations.  Her chest heaves against his as he nips at her collarbone, licking a droplet of sweat that has pooled there. 

 

But the stillness isn’t long lasting as Clarke’s inner need takes over like a ravished dog and she lifts her hips to drop herself back down.  The first few movements aren’t consistent and finding a rhythm takes its time, but soon Clarke is working herself into a beautiful frenzy and Bellamy’s hips pivot upward to meet her thrusts.

 

Bellamy’s hands remain tight on her hips, but still allow her to keep their rhythm.  Her hands are an entirely different story: one moment she’s hanging on to his shoulders for dear life, the next she’s running her nails along the ridges of his chest, and then she’s reaching forward and gripping his face in a sloppy, passionate kiss.  He’s completely overwhelming her and she has become like a woman possessed. 

 

This coupling isn’t one for lingering lips and stilled holds that much is apparent as Clarke already begins to feel the deep pull low in her stomach.  Her walls are clenching tightly around Bellamy as her hips buck in a motion that’s starting to lose any sense of a rhythm. 

 

And her orgasm hits her with barely any warning.  One minute she’s moaning out in pleasure and then with one quick thrust of Bellamy’s hips against her clit, she’s seeing stars.  Crying out his name she’s riding her orgasm to completion and within her haze she can tell Bellamy isn’t far behind. 

 

He’s taken control of their movement, pushing her hips against his and she lets him.  And with one perfectly timed bite to the top of her breast he’s roaring his own release against her skin. 

 

Clarke continues to rock her hips as she comes down, leaning back to rest her hands atop his knees as she watches him.  His chest glistens with sweat and she’s sure hers mirrors his appearance.  In fact, she can feel a droplet of sweat running down her spine as she leans forward to kiss his lips.

 

Bellamy holds her close now, his lips lingers on hers until she feels the rumble of laughter in his chest.  She pulls back to look at him as her arms wrap around his neck again.

 

“That,” he leans forward to kiss her again before continuing. “Should have happened weeks ago.”

 

“This,” she responds with her own kiss. “Needs to happen as often as possible.”

 

They stay there a moment longer, enjoying the way each other’s fingertips explode the other.  The lingering touch that was missing from earlier has now found itself between them.

 

“Think we should go see if Murphy burned the place down?” Clarke asks, her fingers running over Bellamy’s jawline as she speaks.  Her eyes don’t meeting his but instead study his features. 

 

“I don’t smell smoke.” He shakes his head, leaning forward to grip her better. “I think we’ve got time.”

 

And without notice he’s twisting them so she’s laying beneath him on the leather.  Her heated flesh feels relief against the cool surface.  They both laugh when they realize together that Bellamy never actually got completely out of his jeans.  He shakes his head, Clarke admiring how his wet curls bounce against his forehead.  Standing, he kicks them off completely before wrapping himself up again in her welcome form.

 

“Miller is going to fucking kill us.” She laughs against his lips.

 

“Oh yeah.  We’re so fired.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, no beta. All mistakes are mine and there may be more than normal..I'm kind of boarding a plane and my laptop is about to die. But I wanted you guys to have this before take off. Thanks again for reading! Come say hi over on Tumblr! (fourfinick)


	9. I Think We'd Make A Lovely Mess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't think this was ever gonna happen? Terribly sorry it took so long. But I've finally decided this little diddy is going to be coming to an end soon. And so therefore I actually have some direction, woohoo! Hope you enjoy this little fluffy piece of goodness. Minor, minor smutty-ness ahead. Thanks again for all the continued support on this fun little story! Hope you enjoy this small little update!

_Night One Hundred and Twenty-Eight: A Mint Julep_

 

“Full house.” Lincoln grins, slapping his cards down on the table in front of him, leaning forward to collect his winnings while the other groans. They all toss their respective cards on the table without even bothering to show their losing hands. He leans back in his chair as he counts the cash, “You guys are practically paying for Octavia’s anniversary weekend getaway. I’m pretty sure we’re — “

 

“Finish that statement and don’t live to celebrate another anniversary.” Bellamy grounds out, his eyes dangerously locked on the man across from him.

 

The rest of the table laughs at Lincoln’s sudden nervous nature as he holds up his hands in mock innocence, “What I meant to say was — thank you all so much for the extra cash. Now I can buy Octavia more of the turtlenecks she _always_ wears when we’re together.”

 

Bellamy’s grumbles are drowned out by the hazing the other guys are now giving him as they slap Lincoln on the back. The older man just stands up and heads toward the bar — and so what if his middle finger just happens to be waving in the doorman’s direction. He doesn’t bother to offer them anything to drink. Bunch of traitors. And he’s pretty sure Lincoln can find the nearest bridge to dive off of whenever he wishes. Bellamy would even drive him there. And Octavia? Yep, she’s never leaving her room again.

 

“Ask Bellamy where he gets the ones I literally _hear_ Clarke wearing every night she’s over at our place.” Murphy jabs and Bellamy takes the opportunity to chuck an empty Solo cup at the back of his head.

 

“Oh god, please.” Wells cringes. “I really need to hear anything about what Clarke does — or doesn’t — wear when she’s hanging out with Bellamy.”

 

“And there is _plenty_ of hanging out.” Miller adds as Wells reaches up to plug his ears.

 

“ _Okay_!” Monty interferes. “And with that, I think it’s time to clean up and get ready for tonight.”

 

They all look toward Monty with wide eyes at the sudden outburst. He looks a bit red in the face with the topic of conversation and isn’t looking up from where he’s gathering the discarded playing cards as the rest of the boys push away from the table.

 

“Damn, Miller. Looks like someone needs a bit more —“

 

“Shut it, Murphy.” Miller warns, walking toward the bar.

 

Bellamy laughs as he watches his boss pop open several beers before setting them across the countertop. Each player coming up to grab their own as the conversation fades away into different topics. Then Miller reaching into the storage closet, bringing out an array of patriotic decorations for the upcoming holiday that will undoubtedly bring swarming crowds to their dive of a place.

 

“So were the founding fathers actually the makers of these decorations?” Lincoln asks, grabbing a banner that has more rips and pieces of tape holding it together than actual stars. “I mean I know we aren’t the Ritz-Carlton, but I don’t think we’re that hard up we can’t buy new decorations.”

 

“That would actually require shopping. Something Miller does not do.” Monty argues while he folds the card table they’d all been playing on.

 

“Someone mention shopping?” Octavia announces herself as she walks in through the backroom, her sunglasses still covering her eyes. She tosses her beach bag atop the pool table before walking over to where Lincoln stands sorting out different decorations. “I consider myself an Olympic athlete in the sport.”

 

“How well we know.” Lincoln smirks before his lips meet hers in a chaste greeting.

 

Raven soon follows her, greeting everyone before finding an empty seat that just _happens_ to be next to Wells. Bellamy hadn’t believed his girlfriend at first when she’d mentioned something being between the two, but then Raven just so happened to be glued to the law student whenever they were in the same room and Wells always seemed to be searching for the mechanic in a crowded room.

 

“Where’s Clarke?” Bellamy asks when his favorite blonde doesn’t follow soon behind.

 

“Sorry Big Brother,” Octavia starts. “A shark ate her while we were at the beach. We were gonna call, but nothing could be done.”

 

“Shut up.” Raven laughs as Bellamy glares at his sister. “She’s in the back room. Probably sitting in the cooler. Someone forgot the importance of sunblock today.”

 

Bellamy pushes himself into a full standing position as he moves into the backroom. When he rounds the corner he almost laughs at the stark contrast he sees. There’s Clarke standing with her back to him, in front of the stainless steel icebox wearing nothing but a pair of cutoff shorts and her black bikini top. _Almost_ laughs because her skin is a bright tomato-shade of red, but then he sees her grimace as she turns her head toward her shoulder, a piece of ice held between her fingers.  

 

She sees him then, her annoyance written all over her face as she holds the ice cube against her skin. Her hair is a frizzy mess knotted atop her head and her eyes are nearly mesmerizing against the redness of her face.

 

“Please save all your ‘burnt lobster’ jokes for when I don’t feel like I fell asleep on the Sun.” She grumbles.

 

And Bellamy should have a quick comeback or a reassuring word to say, but all his thoughts are focused on the droplet of water now sliding down her bare shoulder. Her skin is obviously warm enough to cause the ice cube in her hand to melt on contact. He should feel bad for her — and he does, he doesn’t want her to hurt — but at the same time she looks absolutely beautiful.

 

Instead of saying a single word, he comes to stand behind her, gingerly reaching for the bare flesh of her hips. He doesn’t tug, or put any pressure into his touch, simply relaxes his fingers against her. Literally feeling the heat radiating off her skin. Bending down slightly he puts his lips just a mere breathe away from her skin and blows.

 

The chill it sends through her is immediate and goose bumps form on her skin. She hums contently at the minor relief she feels, leaning back into his touch. Her comforting noises turn to a brief groan at the contact of his t-shirt, her overly sensitive flesh feeling every fiber it’s made of.

 

“Do you think Miller would care if I sat in the icebox for my entire shift?” Clarke mumbles, her head falling against Bellamy’s shoulder.

 

“The alternative being on his couch…again?” He grins against her ear. “Pretty sure he’ll let you sit wherever you want.”

 

She laughs, allowing him to carefully snake one of his arms in front of her to grab another ice cube.

 

As it begins to melt, Bellamy presses the cool square just beneath the seam of her bikini top. She sucks in a shallow breath between her teeth as her eyes slowly fall shut at the sensation. He takes this time to let his lips drop tenderly against her temple. The ice is all but melted as he idly moves it, leaving the taunt skin of her stomach glistening and his fingers glide easily up and down the beautiful curves of her side.

 

He happens to glance downward at her heaving chest and notices the way her nipples have hardened against the flimsy nature of her swimsuit. Her gorgeous cleavage is no less mesmerizing due to its abnormally red coloring. The material has shifted slightly, revealing a stark line of difference from where her skin was protected by the fabric. And Bellamy swallows hard as his mouth waters at the urge to slide his tongue along that beautiful line.

 

Clarke, getting anxious in his arms, lets her own hands reach behind her, snagging her fingers through the belt loops of his jeans and tugging him against her. He knows the rough material of his jeans sliding against her skin probably isn’t what she’s expecting, but when he tries to pull away she simply holds him tighter. He smirks despite himself. If there’s one thing he’s learned in their short time together its Clarke doesn’t shy away from a little pain.

 

The thought alone has him hard against the brilliant curve of her ass. He groans into her hairline before peppering the side of her face with kisses. His thumb dips just beneath the tie of her suit before moving forward to fully appreciate the weight of her breast. His other hand spreading out against her stomach, the last of the ice cube drying into her skin, leaving a cool surface to his warm touch.

 

Clarke makes her needs known with a quiet whimper has she presses herself firmly against his hand, arching her back just so deliciously. Bellamy wastes no time finally letting his thumb brush over the perky bud begging to be touched and Clarke rewards him by grinding herself against his cock. He sucks in a deep breath and fights the urge to sink his teeth into the delicate skin of her shoulder.

 

She feels like putty leaning against him and he wants nothing more than to scoop her up and take her back to his place — or fuck her against the nearest wall. But responsibility and _maybe_ propriety rear their ugly heads in his mind and he moans in frustration.

 

“Someone’s gonna walk in here any minute.” He mumbles halfheartedly.

 

“Then I guess they’ll be getting an eyeful.” Clarke counters as she turns to face him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him flesh against her.

 

And he’d almost believe she was serious if she hadn’t grimaced once again at the reminder of her burn.   Sure, the look of discomfort had only lasted a second before being masked with sheer desire. But the fact of the matter was that it was there and Bellamy was all about a little pain — but intentional pain. Pain meant to fuel toe-curling kind of pleasure.

 

So instead he overpowers his desires — he should get a goddamn metal for being able to do that with a girlfriend as appetizing as his gorgeous blonde one — and leans down to drop a peck on her nose.

 

“Go home.”

 

“We open in twenty minutes.” She argues, but he knows he’s already won because she’s pulling away from him and grabbing her long forgotten beach bag. She’s listening to him without a fight. She feels worse than she’s letting on; because he knows a well Clarke is nothing if not argumentative.

 

“And you’re going to be miserable all night.” He’s walking with her toward the backdoor she’d recently entered from. “Besides, Lincoln and I aren’t wearing white or blue — you’re red, white and blue idea was obviously not understood before you came in tonight.”

 

She glares at him over her shoulder and he simply leans down to kiss her shoulder again before holding the door open for her, “Get some rest. I’ll be over later with booze and aloe. And if you’re _real_ nice and send me nudes I might bring pizza.”

 

Clarke turns to face him her eyes glinting in amusement, pulling him down for one last sloppy kiss before turning to head down the alleyway, “God, that’s why I love you.”

 

Bellamy’s stomach twists and he half expects her to turn around and try to explain herself. But she doesn’t. She simply keeps her pace and disappears into the employee parking lot. Maybe she thought he’d been out of earshot. Maybe she was completely delirious with sun poisoning. Maybe he’d misheard her.

 

Or maybe — just maybe — Clarke Griffin was in love with him.

 

He turns and heads back into the bar — a minor pep in his step — deciding that that possibility was probably just about the best thing he’d heard all day.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta. All errors are mine. Thanks again for reading! Come hang with me over on Tumblr (fourfinick)!


	10. There's A Piece Of You In Everything I Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so this is just pure fluff. I mean, we’re talking minor, minor angst because I have to? But all happiness here. Honestly, this story is just one happy drabble after another. Oh and after this part we’ll be doing several large time jumps. Hope you enjoy this little piece! Thanks for reading!

_Night One Hundred and Forty-Seven: Pillow Talk_

 

She’s dumping her second bucket of ice when Bellamy comes back around from the cooler carrying a case of Bud Light.  Normally she’s giddy at his presence, but today — and the last several days really — she’s practically avoiding him.  She doesn’t want to talk about it.  She’s made her decision and the fact that he sees the need to continue discussing this like it’s _his_ goddamn opportunity makes her want to scream.  Of course, she’s hardly stated her opinion on the whole situation because that would mean admitting her real reasons and she’s not ready for that kind of conversation.  Well, _she_ is.  She’s just almost certain he’s not.

“So I was thinking – you’ll definitely need to learn how to use sunscreen.  Stanford is in the Sunshine State, after all.” He smirks at her before turning to greet several new patrons. “What can I get you?”

“That’s Florida, genius.” Clarke laughs despite herself.

“See?  That’s why I didn’t get the Stanford Medical Residency offer.” He smiles as he slides past her, his hand running along the small of her back, as he reaches for the two ordered drinks.

She watches him for longer than she wants.  She’s not sure if the fact that he’s so seemingly excited for her makes her love him more or makes her nauseous that he’s so perfectly fine with her flying across the country and away from him.

“Seven bucks.” He offers the two beers over to the ladies.  He glances toward Clarke again, his smile falters when he sees the etched expression on her face. “You alright?”

Clarke shakes her head slightly before nodding quickly, “Yeah, sorry.  Been a long night.”

Bellamy glances back at the clock, “It’s 9:30.  6:30, if you’re in California.”

“Just stop it, Bellamy.” She sighs, finally walking past him and heading toward the backroom.  She only stops when she feels his hand wrap around her wrist.

“Hey,” He comes up close to her, “What’s going on?”

“N-nothing.” She doesn’t look him in the eye, just pulls easily out of his loose grip.  Her frown is only momentary before she smiles back at him, nodding in the direction of the growing crowd at the bar. “Now back to work.  Miller left me in charge tonight — no slacking under my watch.”

Bellamy watches her for a while, the smirk not completely reaching his eyes as he nods, “Yes, ma’am.”

\--

“So I hear we’ll be needing a new bartender come January?” Lincoln says later that night, taking a break from the door.  He’s sipping on a glass of water and leaning against the bar top, Clarke fights the urge to run across said bar and punch Bellamy right in the face.

Instead she just rolls her eyes and finishing wiping off the glasses and stacking them behind the bar.  Lincoln watches her and she wishes he wouldn’t.  He’s always been too insightful, makes reading people’s body language look like easy work.  She continues to pretend she didn’t hear him as she moves along the bar, pouring several ordered shots — fighting the urge to take one herself.

“Bellamy’s really excited for you — says you’ve been working extremely hard on different residency applications.” Lincoln eyes her as he continues, like he’s picking at a pesky scab, hoping he doesn’t draw blood. “Says he didn’t realize you’d applied to one so far away.  Guess he’ll be saving up for flight mon —“

“I’m not going!” she all but screams in his direction.

Lincoln doesn’t seem at all surprised; in fact he almost seems satisfied.  Like he’s been waiting for this outburst, for this revelation to come to light.  The rest of the bar though, it gets eerily quiet for a moment, all eyes going toward Clarke.  Bellamy looks up from his corner of the bar, while Murphy only smirks as he continues to charm some poor girl with a rather daring face tattoo and sudden streak of bad luck.

But the attention doesn’t last but a second, but it’s long enough for Clarke’s face to go red as she looks down at her shoes.  Before long, Bellamy is standing beside her with concern molded across his face.  “You alright?”

“A little touchy about the topic of her residency.” Lincoln pushes, getting a death glare from Clarke.  Sure, he’s got at least 50 pounds of muscle on her, but she’s certain with her current stage of rage she could take him.

Bellamy glances back at her with slight amusement and confusion, “Seriously?”

“I’m not worked up.” She comments, looking from Lincoln and then begrudgingly back at Bellamy. “I’m just not going.”

He wasn’t expecting that and his expression shows it.  He doesn’t say anything for a while and his face is unreadable.  At first she thinks he’s simply going to walk away and head back to work, but then he glances over to where Murphy is standing.

“Murphy, watch the front for a minute.” And he’s grabbing her by the arm, not forcefully, but with enough intention that she knows to follow him.  She manages one last glare toward Lincoln before he heads to the back room.

“Hose down all the surfaces after you’re done!” Murphy yells before the door shuts behind them.

“So do you want to fill me in?” Bellamy asks, crossing his arms over his chest.  Clarke tries not to get distracted from her annoyed state by the way his muscles press against the thin fabric of his Henley.

So instead she just rolls her eyes, “This is really just Lincoln being overdramatic.  It’s nothing.  I’ve just decided I’m not going to Stanford.  It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Bellamy raises his eyebrows. “That’s a pretty big deal, Clarke.  Didn’t you say only fifteen students were picked for that type of residency a year?  You were picked.  I would think there is no decision to be made in the matter.”

“I’ve also been accepted to Duke’s medical residency and – and I just think that,” Clarke starts to ramble, pacing about the small back room as Bellamy just watches her. “That’s just a better option for me.”

“And why the hell is that?” Bellamy seems so surprised by her comment that it boils her anger to new levels.

“Oh I don’t know, maybe because things have changed since I turned in that application almost _six_ months ago.”

Bellamy runs a hand over his face and lets out an aspirated laugh, “Isn’t this what you’ve been working for since you started here?  You read every single article that Stanford Medical puts out — hell, I can’t even get through a damn paragraph and you can write a sixty-page explanation on each one.  You’re like a kid in a comic book store when those things come out.  And now you’re saying you don’t want to be a part of that?”

“Yeah.” Clarke nods with certainty she once had, but now seeing his near eagerness at her going she’s not so sure. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Well that makes absolutely no sense.” He shakes his head, pushing himself up from leaning on the counter and starting to move toward the door once more.  “Why would you —?“

“Because I’m in love with you, you fucking asshole!” She yells in his direction.  The heat rising to her face as her heart rate quickens, she’s not sure if it’s because of her sudden outburst or at the fact that she just so freely admitted feelings she’s almost positive at this point are not reciprocated.

“And I am obviously dense enough to believe that if I stick around this,” She points between her and him, “might actually turn into something long term.”

Bellamy stands there gaping at her; his arms now slack at his sides.  Clarke doesn’t notice his stunned expression because she is now pacing through her anger, trying to wrap her brain around where she goes next with this conversation.

“I want to stay _here_ , Bellamy.  Because I know I can do great things at Duke and more importantly, I can do them _next to you_.” Clarke sighs, shaking as her sudden courage pulses through her.

She runs her hands over her face, not noticing how Bellamy is slowing stalking toward her.  She shrugs with defeat, her hands dropping down to her sides. “But apparently you’re pretty ready to ship me off across the country so I —“

His lips crash down on hers before she can finish her sentence and his hands are cupping her neck before she can fully comprehend what is happening.  Once she does her response is eager.  She wraps her arms around his waist, grabbing a fist full of his shirt, pulling him flesh against her.  He’s walking her backwards until her hips bump into the countertop behind her.  Within an instant he’s reaching down to grip her ass and set her atop the stainless steel surface.

Clarke’s mind is mush as Bellamy drags his lips along her jawline and she’s nearly putty in his hands when she feels his breath against her ear, “You love me.”

“Don’t be smug.” She mumbles, her fingers grabbing at the hem of his shirt, forgetting to care about where they are.

He stills then and she does the same, confused as he slowly pulls away to look at her, “You know the only reason I was _feigning_ excitement was because I thought you wanted to go to Stanford — and I wasn’t about to be the wet blanket you left behind.  And you know I’d support you if you were down the street or on a different goddamn planet, right?”

Clarke grins, moving to rest her forehead against his.  Her hands resting around his neck as he moves to pepper several kisses across her forehead before stepping away and moving to leave the back room, because they still have worked to do and he doesn’t want to get too caught up in her.  He does stop before opening the door to look back at her.

“Oh, and this fucking asshole loves you too.”

\--

Clarke glances at the end of the bar where Murphy is staring down at his cellphone with a smirk that just reads of ‘booty call’.  She glances to where Bellamy is locking the door behind Lincoln’s exit before looking back, “Get out of here, Murphy.  I think we can handle the rest of clean up.”

Murphy barely registers her for a moment as he responds to whatever has him so enthralled on his cell screen, but when he does look up it’s obvious he’s antsy.  Bellamy has returned to stand next to him, slapping the man on the shoulder, “Seriously.  Get out of here, before whoever you’re talking to changes her fucking mind.”

“And she will.” Clarke adds, “If she’s smart.”

“I hate you both.” Murphy points from Bellamy to her as he’s walking backwards toward the door.  Bellamy is again following behind him, ready to lock the door after his exit.  Murphy stops though, looking back at Bellamy with a sickening sweet smile, “She says her roommates are home tonight — so I was thinking back to our place?  Think you can stay at Clarke’s?”

Bellamy glances back at her and she shrugs, “Guess you’re on the couch with Wells.”

“Lovely.” Murphy grins, practically bouncing out the door before Bellamy can argue. “Have a good night!”

As Bellamy is locking the door he shakes his head, “Tell me again why we keep him around?”

“He’s good for a laugh.” Clarke adds, tossing the towel she’d been cleaning with onto the bar and moving to walk toward him.  He’s still busy with the locks and front house lights, so she takes the opportunity to easily remove her tank top and step out of her shorts before placing herself on the pool table casually.

“Yeah well I’m pretty sure we can find someone —“ He freezes midsentence when he gets sight of her sitting atop the green felt in nothing but her strapless bra and panties.

She smirks at the immediate expression of lust that falls across his face, “I figured since your house is occupied and my place is occupied — we might as well check off _one_ _more_ surface in this place, don’t you think?”

Bellamy is sliding his hands up her thighs as she widens her legs for him to step in between, “Have I told you that I love you lately?”

Clarke grins against his lips, “You know, I think you might have mentioned it.  Maybe?”

“Well, let me make sure you have no questions about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts! And as always, come say hey over on Tumblr - now @ likcoln :)


	11. We're Looking For Something Dumb To Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We time jumped! Aaaand we've got more fluff. I've been kind of in a funk with my writing, so I decided I needed some drabble, fluffy Bellarke to get me out of it. Hope you enjoy! Again, thank you so much for all the support this story gets! It means so much!

_Night Nine Hundred and Sixty-One: Sweetheart_

_I’m going to be late because Miller is a dick._

 

She barely finishes her text before the very man she’s talking about pops up on her screen with a goofy lopsided grin and Monty leaning into his chest.  The picture is from last Fourth of July at the bar; the memory makes her smile, but _he_ makes her want to scream right about now.

 

“Are you on your way?” He doesn’t even bother with a greeting and she has to roll her eyes toward the sky.  Sometimes she misses when they were nothing more than friendly acquaintances.

 

“Please tell me again why Lincoln or Murphy couldn’t swing by and do this?” Clarke complains, walking down the sideway toward the bar. “Better yet, why the hell are you having kegs delivered on a Sunday?  What company even _does_ that?”

 

“Lincoln is out of town with Octavia for the weekend and Murphy’s not answering his phone —“

  
“So you called me?  Send Monty!  Or hell, here’s a novel idea: come down here yourself!”

 

“I owe you, Clarke.” He says a little too calmly.

 

“Yeah.  I want a raise.” She demands, reaching into her pocket for her keys.

 

“Done.”

 

“And free booze.  I’m a broke med student.”

 

“You already drink for free, Clarke.”

 

“For life.” She corrects herself.  With a turn of the handle she lets herself into the bar, her phone wedged between her shoulder and her ear. 

 

He’s talking on the other end, but her attention has shifted from their conversation to the bar in front of her.  The empty bar she had expected to find has been replaced by hundreds of white Christmas lights strung above her head to create a soft glow throughout the room.  She’s frozen for only a moment before she notices numerous mixed drinks sitting on different surfaces.  The drinks each have an index card nearby.  As she gets closer she sees Bellamy’s distinct chicken scratch.  The first one to her left, next to a shot of tequila, reads “Day One”.

 

“I gotta call you back.” She barely mumbles before she’s sliding her phone in her back pocket and reaching for the card.  She flips it over and reads the note on the back:

 

_Princess, I think we make an alright team.  
And I’m pretty glad you didn’t stay on your side._

 

She smirks as she remembers the first night they met and how aggravated she had been over his antics.  Her eyes than drift toward the nearly two-dozen more drinks strung out all over the place.  Her eyes recognize some of them instantly — Lincoln’s poison easily the worst thing she’s ever tasted.   Others make her heart swell at the fact that he’s remembered those moments at all.

 

After awhile, and several moments of held back tears, she finally reaches the center of the room — still no sign of the man who’s created this timeline of drinks.  There’s an empty champagne flute (something he obviously brought into this dive of an establishment) and an index card that reads “Day 961.”  She flips it over and it simply reads:

 

 _Come on, Clarke.  You already know where this is leading.  
_ _What do you say?_

 

Her hands are shaking and she’s hardly able to contain her smile when she hears footsteps behind her.  Slowly she turns around to see Bellamy walking out from behind the bar, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his worn jeans.  His smile is crocked and he moves closer with a bit of hesitation.

 

She lets out a watery laugh, pointing casually around the room, “You know, this is kind of perfect.”

 

“Yeah.  Who knew I had it in me?” His voice comes out shaking with emotion. 

 

Clarke watches him and it’s just like she’s read in the fucking fairytales, he’s pulling out a small gold circle from his pocket and dropping to one knee in front of her.  Her hand instantly covers her mouth and a tear drips onto her fingertips.  Bellamy glances up at her, offering the small band with a solitary diamond sitting atop it. 

 

“So, you free for the next fifty years or so?”

 

Clarke lets out a laugh before nodding frantically, “I’m pretty sure I can move some things around.” 

 

He’s standing in front of her again and his lips are on hers before she can even fully process.  She instantly grabs around his sides to tug him closer to her as he kisses her senseless.  Her heart races with excitement even after he pulls away only far enough to slide the ring onto her finger.

 

He moves to rest his forehead against hers and she moves to kiss him once more.  Her lips tangle with his in a lazy motion, her arms warping completely around his middle as he hugs her into his chest.  Before long she feels his hands sliding beneath the material of her tunic, his fingers setting fire to every inch of skin he touches.

 

“So I’m guessing there aren’t any kegs being delivered that I _need_ to count for?” She muses, half focused on her words and half focused on his lips against her jaw.

 

“No company delivers on Sundays.” He confirms. She groans at Miller’s blatant lie and her willingness to believe it.  See if she ever trusts him again. 

 

“And Lincoln and Octavia aren’t out of town.” She pushes, allowing him to start backing her up toward an unknown destination. 

 

“They’re all at Miller and Monty’s place — Wells’ is in town too.  We’re supposed to go back there for a surprise party.” He admits very transparently.  He lets her undo the buttons of his flannel shirt as he makes easy work of her top, tossing it away and forgotten. 

 

“Is that what we’re doing?” She questions with a raised eyebrow.

 

Bellamy looks back at her, his pupils dilated with arousal.  He grins with a nod, “Oh absolutely.  Just a quick detour to Miller’s office and we’ll be on our way.”

 

“He’s so going to kill us.” Clarke yelps as Bellamy picks her up, her legs easily wrapping around his waist.

 

“Guess we better get married quick then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we got one more chapter to this fun little piece. Hope you enjoyed the second to last! Thanks again for reading! And why aren't we hanging out on Tumblr?! Come find me @likcoln!


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